Heroes and Thieves
by Yuni30
Summary: Your heroes are sometimes closer than you think. They are, in the end, human. As a young girl is reminded of this by her uncle, she struggles to consider what she really wants in life.
1. Chase

**Warning: This fanfiction contains scenes of graphic depictions of violence and future character death. Please be advised.**

~.~.~

She ran. Ran harder than she ever thought. She exhaled quick panicked breaths as she looked back at the group of thugs chasing her. This was bad. Really bad. She pushed her luck too far finally. She gritted her teeth as she looked back at the lime and sandstone streets, the square buildings flying past her as she evaded her pursuers. Who knew what would happen to her if she got caught? At best she'd get off with a good maiming, alive, but injured in a back alley. At worst, beat within an inch of her life and reported to the guards.

That would gain her quite a reputation- a reputation she wasn't seeking. She couldn't be known for that… What kind of thief gets recognized that way? It certainly wasn't a way to survive. Word spreads fast in small towns like this, anyway. She'd have to run- run far away even after escaping her fate.

A dead end was ahead. She looked at the buildings and noted the banisters outside of the windows. She could climb to the roof if she timed it right. "There she is," she heard one of the vest-clad men shout. She glanced back, eyes wide. Before she could think, she felt her legs sprint toward to the building. She scrambled up the wall, swinging and launching herself to the next banister. Her magenta coat flapped against her body, her short dark brown bangs obscured her bright blue eyes. She operated on muscle memory, on what skills she obtained before running away.

When she found herself on top of the tall building, breathless, she looked down at her body, her knees. She smirked. All that training she had since she was little. Her father taught her well. Her uncle even more so. Then, the unthinkable… The scoundrels were scaling the building- she could hear them scrape against the walls, one of them cursing about losing his grip. "Damn it… They just can't let a couple hundred guilders go, can they?" She rolled her eyes and stood, brushing off her teal skirt, some of the dust landing on her bright red leggings. "Better keep running, then," she grunted as she took off, just missing the hand that gripped the side of the roof.

She ran, jumping from building to building. She had no clue where in the town she was, but she wasn't going to let them catch her. She had to survive. She had to become a legendary thief- like the one in the legends her uncle always told her as a child. She wanted so badly to be like him. She'd one day find that thief. She'd show her skills, she'd ask him to take her with him to teach her everything he knew.

She couldn't do that from a jail cell, she couldn't do that if she was dead. She finally came across a gap too big for her to jump. She leaned back, her hands flinching, eyes wide at the drop. She'd have to jump for it. She looked back when she heard a chuckle. These guys were insane! They had followed her this far. The leader of the group, a tan bald man with a scar on his cheek and a body built for endurance and strength grinned at her, taking note of the helpless position his prey was in.

"End of the line, little girl," he growled as he cracked his knuckles. The slowly approached her and she edged closer to the ledge. She threw her hand out, summoning a metallic four armed creature that floated above the ground- her familiar. The thugs stopped and for a moment seemed honestly surprised by this development. The leader finally smirked. "Teeth are out, eh?" He took a fighting stance, legs apart and fists up.

"Get them," she ordered as she began to look for an escape. The mechanical creature shot toward him and the band of thugs. The one in front caught the creature and parried its attacks. He looked at the gawking group of ruffians furiously. "Don't just stand there, get her!"

She gasped when the group turned their attention on them. The beast was pushed away but returned for another volley of attacks. _Remember, don't kill them. We don't need blood on our hands._ She reminded it. It nodded its large metal box encased glowing blue eye with an affirmative mechanical growl. She assessed her odds. She still couldn't take them on. She couldn't use any more magic than she already had- though, she never really counted familiars entirely magical. The use of any more went against the rules she established when she left home.

It wasn't the way of the thief- the legendary thief that had no magic. She'd do the same. Because of this, though she found herself at the quite the disadvantage. Her martial arts skills weren't going to cut it here. Even as she dodged their attacks and used their own weight against them, they just got right back up, ready for another round. She found herself on the edge again. She decided that falling was her only escape. The robot she called her only friend looked back. She nodded at it and it withdrew back into her. As her assailants advanced on her, she consciously tripped back, angling herself to fall on her side rather than her back.

They wouldn't know the difference. They'd assume the fall would kill her. She anticipated this. She expected to injure her arm. She expected the searing pain to course through her body before blacking out. With this knowledge, she didn't scream when she fell nor when she hit the dusty ground below.

The chase was over. The group, not wanting to claim the blood on their hands disappeared. Her plan had worked but at a price.

* * *

"Uncle Gascon," a little girl had called once upon a time. She ran to the tall, lanky gold trench coat-clad man sitting on the magenta sofa next to her father. She beamed up at him and held up a toy robot. "Uncle Gascon, look at all the improvements I made," she shouted excitedly, moving the extra wooden limbs she attached with glue. "Now it has twice as many arms!"

He couldn't help but smirk down at the princess. "Quite the little inventor, you are," he complimented, gently taking the toy and admiring it. He tilted it, observing it thoughtfully. He tried moving one of the extra limbs. It fell off to his shock. He looked down at his niece worriedly. "Sorry, Lynnea. I don't think the glue stuck to the metal that well…" He looked thoughtfully down at the toy and back to the girl with short dark brown hair.

She looked down dejectedly. She failed again. She wanted to invent neat things. She had magic, but she never took interest in it. She wanted to create things with her hands. Something about art, something about inventing drew her further away from studying it. She wanted to be like her uncle, a simple inventor that wondered the land.

When he saw the sad look on her face he looked at the toy. "Hey. It's alright. You'll get it next time," he encouraged, raising a hand and rubbing her head. "Just keep working on it." He tilted his head and smiled at her as he handed her back the toy she had "improved", the original being something he had made for her for her fourth birthday.

She had grown a bit over the years- she was around eight then, about the age when _he_ had started really trying to build and tinker with small gadgets. Somehow, she had inherited his love for machinery. A mage and a mechanic, a combination fit for a future Empress.

"Hey, you want to hear a story," he asked her. He grinned as he glanced over at his brother. "You don't mind, do you," he requested.

"Not at all. You haven't seen her in so long. I wouldn't dare interfere," Marcassin permitted, clasping his hands over his lap. He nodded down at an unsure girl in a purple gown and moved to make room.

Gascon did so as well, patting the area next to him. She smiled happily and climbed up with her toy. He pulled her closer to his side and began to tell her a tale. She listened intently about the man with no magic, just his trusty familiars and his pickpocketing gun aiding a ragtag team against a horrific monster.

"No, he wasn't. Father wasn't there," she argued with her uncle, looking up at the black haired sage. "Father's too nice to fight such things," she half insulted, half praised, closing her eyes and tilting her head up.

"Oh, but your father was," the wandering brother admitted. "When it comes to the fate of the world, he's really quite stubborn." He looked up at his little brother with a confident smirk then back down to his niece. "He gets it from your grandfather- just like you," he teased, tickling her. He laughed as she giggled.

He continued to tell of the battle, the struggles they faced. It came down to the thief who had managed to barely survive. Everyone else had fallen. The girl waited with baited breath when her uncle fell silent. "And...," Lynnea called with a hushed whisper, looking up at her uncle.

"And… And he, of course, rushed to save them. He stood up after taking a direct blast from his enemy. He wasn't about to let it win," he explained. "That wouldn't stop Swaine. No." He shook his head and looked back down at Lynnea. "He took the hand full of phoenix feathers and narrowly dodged its attacks. He brought them back and together they pressed on."

"Did they win," she asked, eager to hear the outcome. She tilted her head, confused. She looked up at her father. "Father, you were there! Did they beat the monster?"

"…Did they beat it…," she asked again, quieter this time, trailing off. The scene, the three of them sitting on the couch in the throne room of the palace faded with her words. "Could _I_ beat it? Could I ever be like him," she heard her older self ask through the dark void of her mind. The darkness disappeared. She was still sitting on the couch, her father and her uncle gone. She looked from side to side, then directly in front of her and saw the trenchcoat-clad teen- her seventeen-year-old future self. She shook her head at the older Lynnae. "I don't know," she answered quietly, looking down.

"I'm letting us down aren't I," she asked her younger self. "Look where I'm at." She held her left arm subconsciously and looked away. "Father would be ashamed." She shook her head and turned her head, her eyes closed. "But I'm doing this for me. I'm doing this for my own sake. I _will_ be my own person. I will be a _thief_." She opened her eyes, but the girl was gone and so was the throne room with its dim light and darkened corners. She saw the back of her uncle. She saw the golden coat billow back from an unseen breeze.

"Uncle…," she asked him. He didn't respond. She reached for him with her right arm. "Can you tell me… Can you tell me how to become like that man?" She saw his bowed head raise and turn to look over his shoulder. He was frowning disappointedly at her.

"Why are you still chasing this dream," he asked hollowly. "You will always be nothing more than a princess," he observed as he looked back in front of him. He began to walk away. "Give up," he ordered harshly, not bothering to acknowledge her again.

"But- but you said- Uncle Gascon!" She ran after him, holding her hand out to grab his shoulder. When she was mere inches away, she snapped back to reality. Her eyes snapped open. At first, she felt nothing. Then her mind slowly processed the injuries she had, resulting in what first was a dull ache now a jarring pain in her left arm. She sat up and felt it, wincing and whimpering when she felt the multiple pieces of broken bone. The sky was orange, the sun low.

She considered her options. She had no healing potions. She'd have to rely on magic… which was also an issue. Of all the magic spells she failed to master, healing ones were the least of her talents. All the others were fine except any spell that allowed for support. She would have to try. She had notes inscribed with runes from her practice sessions and she pulled them out of the inner pocket of her coat. She flipped to the page marked "Healing Touch". Resting the notes on her lap, she pulled out her wand made from a branch from what little trees existed near Hamelin. It was a gift given to her by her parents and her uncle.

She smirked at the beautifully carved wand, the handiwork of the rarely seen Gascon. The magic was her father's and it was given to her by her mother. So much love had gone into it. It made her feel safe just having it despite her rule of not using magic.

She raised the wand and tried to cast Healing Touch. It began to glow and then her arm began to twist. She felt more bones breaking and she almost cried out in pain. She bit her right arm and the cloth muffled the pained shout. She dropped the wand and gingerly held up her now even more mangled arm. Her breaths were ragged as she felt the now pulverized bones. _Injuring touch, more like!_ She thought bitterly. _No way is this going to heal, now._ She frowned and looked up. _I'm going to need to replace my arm… I need that arm. How the hell am I supposed to replace it…_ She looked down at the wand and the notes. She took out her own version of the pickpocketing pistol. She had never seen the mythical gun that thief used, but she still managed to craft her own. What one could do with an ordinary pistol and some spare parts amazed her, sometimes. If she could make this, she could make a prosthetic arm and hand.

But how?! She had no metal! She had no parts or equipment! She needed something to connect the nerves and the rest of her body. How would she manage that on the low salary of a rogue? She fished the floral coin purse from her pockets on the outside of her jacket. She peered inside. There was no way she could afford _anything_ like that. She leaned the back of her head against the building wall in defeat. The sun had sunk but the sky glowed a somber blue. The streets lit up and shed a little light into the crevices of the town.

She looked down at the wand again and frowned. Perhaps she needed to make an allowance to her no magic rule. If wands could be crafted using magic talent and carving- if machines could be powered by magic- the only way to make an arm as good as her own was _through_ magic. If there was anything else she was good at, it was making gadgets with the proper materials.

She'd have to find something suitable for now. She'd have to rely on the spells Fuse and Rejuvenate to make her invention a reality. She'd improve it when she found better materials.

For now… She eyed some cloth lying in the corner of the alley. She picked it up and bit into it with her mouth. She took her right hand and ripped it. She stomped on one end with her foot and knelt down to tie it with one arm. She looped the makeshift sling over her shoulder and gently, painfully, rested her arm in it. She took the rest of the dusty old cloth and draped it over her. She didn't want those goons to find her.

Once her handy work was done, she'd leave. She'd find another town to take refuge in, to further her education of being a powerful thief. Perhaps she'd even find that man, she figured as she walked out into the better-lit thoroughfare. She'd find him. She swore to herself she would. She'd find the legendary thief, the one she looked up to her whole life, Swaine.

She hoped he was worth the effort. She hoped he was worth the loss of an arm. He had to be. What hero ever wasn't? The darkness of night and the uncertainty of it approached the town. It would soon be upon it. It would soon be upon her- the girl in a ragged coat and a broken arm seeking lofty dreams. She'd welcome it… for now.


	2. Recovery

She found an abandoned hut just outside of town. Nobody would bother her there. She shambled through the gaping door and fell against the back of the shelter. She gasped as she lifted herself, clutching her arm. She was in immense pain. She needed to fix this. She needed to make that replacement arm. She breathed heavily and stayed still for a moment. She had thrown it around quite a lot just looking for this place.

The pain subsided slightly. She looked up at the door and the ruined building. _Some of this will make good arm building material_ , she thought as she looked at the piles of wood and rubble. She looked at the door again. _The hinges might make good joints. I'll need more than that, though._ She placed her hand on her chest. "Avery," she called softly as she lifted it, allowing the robotic familiar to come out.

"Get me some parts for my arm, will you? Wood, nails, and pipes from dilapidated buildings from around here will do." She looked up at the blue eye on top of the hovering four-armed robot body. It nodded back with a sympathetic growl. She looked down for a moment, considering her predicament. He would have to be her arms until this passed. She remembered the hinges from the door and snapped her head back up. Avery had yet to leave as he floated close to the exit. "And _hinges_! I need hinges!" All she got was an affirmative nod and that was all. She slid the sheet off of her and took out a charcoal pencil she kept on hand. She began to draw the blueprints for the device.

She had them in her head already, but she needed to make sure her calculations weren't off. She used her right to compensate for her left. She watched how it moved. She even figured she'd need to make ball joints for the elbow and fingers. She let out a heavy sigh and recalled that it would have to be able to absorb impact. What kind of item would she use then? She thought for a moment about the more complex designs she had read about in Hamelin. She thought about the pickpocketing gun and how its pistol design worked.

She would have to fashion springs to make it less hard on her shoulder. She thought long and hard about comfort. This was a permanent procedure. She'd have to live with it for the rest of her life. She closed her eyes and made use of her bond with the creature. _I need grass and as much metal as you can find, got it?_ She didn't need to see or hear it. She knew he had heard her loud and clear.

He was her creation, after all. He was a soldier from her soul. Somehow, someway, a familiar based on her childhood toy. As he worked hard to find what she needed, she toiled away, day and night. She had him forage from around the area rather than go into town. If anyone saw him, she knew the goons from earlier would find out.

Finally, all of the parts were mapped out, all of the items she needed: collected. She had quite a pile sitting in the middle of the room. She scooted over, keeping her arm from moving as much as humanly possible. She began her work.

Rejuvenate was almost essentially alchemy. She took the pipes and manipulated them to a cleaner state. If they were the wrong length, she had Avery slice them with his claws on the lower arms where she marked them. She fashioned wood bearings and made sure to limit the movement of those bearings with the very design of the rest of the body. The most complex parts were the hands. She pressed her hand to her face and observed each joint and how each part curved and flexed. She became wholly intimate with her right arm to recreate her left.

With each piece that required the use of two hands, she had Avery attend to one thing while she maneuvered the other delicate parts of her arm. For other parts, she used the spell, Fuse, to join them, easing the process. The hardest part was the shoulder. She found herself testing various combinations to best imitate the movement and finally settled on one.

The arm was completed. All she needed was a way to secure it. She sifted through the materials and found some metal. Using Fuse again, she fashioned the parts for a collar. She added hoops to the edge of the shoulder. She took some of the cloth and filled it with grass, tying it shut to add to the eventual limb. She had Avery fetch some supple leather. She'd have to use Fuse one last time to create what she needed- belts. She hated belts, she hated wearing any kind of belt. It just reminded her of that ridiculous tradition of wearing them. Why belts? Was there some sort of purpose? She always figured her ancestors used them to carry tools. Now it seemed more like a flashy accessory.

She sighed. This wasn't for fashion. It was for her health. She smirked at the irony. The accessory she hated was to be her savior. She gripped her left shoulder to remind herself of this. She winced and let go as she stared down at the newly fashioned arm. Once she made the necessary parts she would do it. She would cut off her own arm.

She looked up at Avery once she was done with the assembly. "One last thing, boy." She grinned, tears welling up in her eyes. "You aren't going to like this very much." It nodded as she took her left arm out of the sling and removed her jacket. "Well, you know what to do," she led on as she balled up a part of her coat and bit into it. "Don't stop no matter what you hear, alright," she said through a mouthful of cloth. She had her wand at the ready, the page opened to Fireball. She nodded at the robot again for him to start.

Avery took the arm, hesitating when he saw her wince. "Do it," she snapped. "Cut it off!" The familiar looked down at the mangled limb and pulled on it. As its master cried out in pain it pulled harder, eventually tearing the arm out of her shoulder socket. He looked at her face and growled softly, sympathetically. "I'll- I'll be fine! Just finish the job," she whimpered through the spit-soaked red fabric. "The sooner the better!" It nodded and readied its claws on the other arms. It sliced down on the shoulder, cleanly cutting the arm off. She recoiled and screamed in absolute agony. Through her anguished cries, she slowly picked up her wand and held it up. With a shaky hand, she drew the rune for Fireball over her shoulder.

She screamed again as the flames scorched her skin, cauterizing the wound. They went out slowly as she sobbed. The pain was unbearable. She flopped over to her right side and clutched her burnt shoulder. Death didn't seem so bad now. Anything to get out of the hell she was experiencing. She even thought of returning home briefly. She shook her head. She didn't want to go back. That would be a fate worse than death to her. If she went back her father would hold onto the delusion that she would be whatever he said she would be. Or worse… consider her a complete fool for even trying to be anything else.

He would make her an empress, molded for the throne. She narrowed her eyes as she thought about this, slowly losing consciousness. She wanted to be something of her own making… If a thief was what that was, that was what she would be.

* * *

"Tell me again… about the thief," a ten-year-old Lynnea requested. She sat next to her uncle and looked up at him. The fluffy curls of his hair caught her attention and she reached up to touch them. He smirked down at her. He laughed when he felt curious fingers toy with the tangled mess on his head. "You want to know more, do you little Lynnea?" He glanced away mysteriously then back at her. "Fine. I'll tell you. He was an absolute legend."

"'Legend'? He was famous," she asked with a tilt of the head.

"Only for saving the world. Rumor has it, Swaine was pretty brave. He looked out for his friends, he put his family first." He tossed her hair and smiled when she giggled. He sighed. "He went on so many misadventures with his friends. He had inadvertently helped so many people just by being there for the pure-hearted one."

She let out an awed gasp as she withdrew her hand. "And he had no magic? He sounds so cool," she said. "That makes father pretty cool, too. He also helped!" She giggled and grinned up at her uncle. She kicked the couch with the back of her foot. "But why do I like Swaine more?" She tilted her head away. "Father was there…"

"Hah! You always did prefer tales about the underdog." He looked down at the princess. He held a hand out to the rest of the room. "My question is why do you wait until I visit for these tales? You could just ask your father."

"They sound better coming from you. Papa's too boring when he tries to tell them." She looked up at her uncle. "I want to build things just like the gun in those stories! I want to make all sorts of machines!" She tugged on his coat sleeve. "Can you teach me?" She looked up with large pleading eyes.

He looked away, his smile falling. "I dunno. Maybe. It's been a while since I've gotten my hands dirty when it comes to machines." He nodded and looked back down at the teen. "One day… maybe."

"…One day," the seventeen-year-old questioned. "You never came back…" She looked disdainfully at the memory. "So, I had to figure out machinery on my own. I had to read your plans, what plans I could find." She laughed quietly. "I wanted to be even more like you after I read them."

She walked up to the memory, her younger self disappearing and her uncle simply looking up with a neutral expression. "Why didn't you come back? Where did you go?" She realized she knew hardly anything about him then. She realized the man was an enigma. Who was he to her?

He rose from the sofa and looked slightly down at his niece. He smirked, taking his coat off, revealing the rest of his red tunic. He carefully placed it on her shoulders. Chuckling he looked thoughtfully down at the now ten-year-old version of her. "There. Now you look like a thief." He smiled when she raised her arms, the coat still a little too large for her.

"Uncle Gascon," she drawled out. "It's too big," she whined.

"I'll take it back, then," he suggested with a playful grin.

She shook her head and ran behind the chair. "No. It's too comfy." She peeked out from behind the magenta sofa. "Tell me more stories," she demanded.

She felt a familiar warmth in the jacket. The warmth was almost real. It _was_ real. Before the memory could play out, she awoke, barely opening her eyes. Covering her thin, weak frame was a large beige coat… at least that was what it looked like. Under her head was her own. She was too tired to question it. She was too tired to care. She felt heavy, achy. She drifted off again, gripping the new makeshift blanket. Perhaps Avery had found it before returning to her and took care of her… Whatever.

* * *

A man with a cloth wrapped around his head and face rode on the back of a furry beast native to the Winter Islands. He was just passing through, making his way to Al Mamoon to meet with the Cowlipha. He had a message from the capital of the eastern Pig Iron Empire to deliver. Along with this mission, he had a personal endeavor. It seemed the ruler of Hamelin's precious daughter had gone missing. He made a promise to look for her and to bring her back if he ever found her.

He hadn't seen her in so long… Why had she run away? The Great Sage was hardly a confrontational man. What could have possessed her to be so cruel, to make him worry so?

The creature suddenly stopped and the man riding it looked down. "What's wrong, boy?" It grunted as it stared at a hut near the outskirts of one of the small desert settlements situated near a rather small oasis. "Look, I know it's hot. I'll get a bucket from a vendor when we get to Al Mamoon and pour some water over you to cool you off. Just hold on for a bit." He rubbed his legs. "I can't walk as much as I used to… Getting old sucks."

The creature grunted up at him again tilting its head violently to get its owner's attention. "Huh? Is there something else you're trying to tell me," he asked it, petting the fur on the side of its face. It sniffed then huffed out air as if affirming his question. It wildly shook its head. "Then show me!" It bolted towards the hut, leaping to cover more ground. When it stopped, it nearly threw its rider. "Woah! Easy! Are you trying to kill me?!" His eyes were wide as a cold sweat formed on his back.

He dismounted and walked in, the beast following him by squeezing through the door. It sniffed again and carefully walked up to a body lying on the ground. Its eyes drifted to the dismembered limb leaking blood which pooled on the floor. It nudged it, whining.

Its owner gasped when he finally realized what had happened. He looked at the body- a girl wearing an orange shirt, a short, teal skirt and red leggings. Her shoes were dark brown, flat and feminine in style. She had short straight dark brown hair. She was breathing weakly as she clutched the burned stub where her left arm had been. Her coat lied next to her, the piece she had bitten earlier fallen out. She had a pained expression on her face, her body still processing the shock of the sudden loss.

"It's that girl… the one from the wanted posters." He crouched down and looked at her young face. "She's just a kid," he realized sadly. "A kid from Hamelin, judging by the style." He lightly placed a hand on her forehead. "She's burning up… That injury did quite a number to her." She shivered and he looked down at her sympathetically. He took the sun-bleached coat from his shoulders and draped it over her body. He wore a red tunic- faded from all the wear. He took the coat from near her head and folded it. He gently lifted her head and placed it underneath. "There we are…"

* * *

"Ssh, it's alright," her father comforted her in her memory. She seemed to be dreaming of home more and more. She didn't want to go back but her state at that moment made her long for the safety of the palace. In this dream, she was four and had tripped and skinned her knee. Pain was a fairly new concept to her. How much pain a skinned knee was, she knew now, was child's play compared to losing a limb.

"What's wrong," her uncle chimed in, his curiosity getting the better of him. He saw the wound and knelt to look at it. "Ah. I see." He looked up, a concerned look on his face. "It'll pass," he encouraged. "You'll get used to things like this. It happens."

She rocked back and forth. "But it hurts. It hurts." She looked up at her father. "I don't like it! I don't want to hurt, papa!" The four-year-old gripped her father's robes as she cried.

Her uncle, his face set, stood and walked around to her back. He knelt down and pulled her into a hug. "Hey. It's okay. Just bear with it. Look, he's casting a spell." He directed her attention to Marcassin who had his wand out. He was casting healing touch on her. The wound closed and left a small scar. "See. All better."

She looked at her knee and then back up at her father. "All gone?" Her face lit up with glee. She giggled. "I want to learn neat magic like that, too!"

"You may. You must have the talent for it, first," her father answered. He glanced at his older brother. "But even if you don't have any talent, that doesn't mean you aren't special. It just means you have to be even more inventive… and careful." He placed a hand on her head. He knelt down as well and joined the embrace, her father and her uncle holding her. She felt safe, secure.

She woke up, barely comprehending her environment. She felt an arm behind her back and another cradling her side. She groaned softly as she looked up. "Ssh," a man's voice hushed her. "Easy. Take it easy." He let the arm at her back support her as he leaned forward. He grabbed a cup from near a small fire he had built out of the wood lying around the hut. He lifted her head carefully and pressed the edge of the cup to her mouth. "Here. Drink this. You need all the help you can get."

Usually, she would have been on her guard. Usually, she would have shoved the cup away and tried to resist. She would have questioned him and his motives… But she found herself in a state of need. She was so weak. She didn't understand why. Her arm had been cut off but she failed to see the correlation. Why was her body reacting so negatively to this change?

She allowed the mysterious broth to enter her mouth, sipping it. Who was this man? Why was he being so kind to her? She shifted her eyes to try and see if she recognized her caretaker. All she could make out in her blurry vision was a pink looking shirt and greyed stubble on a rounded chin. Nothing more. She decided she had had enough of the warm soothing soup and closed her mouth again. He withdrew the cup and carefully lied her back down.

"Who… who are you…," she whispered before he could get up.

"That doesn't matter now," he responded. "Focus on getting better, alright?" She could hear the comforting smile in the stranger's words. "Don't try to speak anymore," he softly advised. "Save your strength."

With that final suggestion, she closed her eyes again, drifting off to sleep.


	3. Delusions

She awoke. Her eyes snapped open. She raised her head and threw the jacket off of her. The embers of the fire glowed in front of her. Her eyes widened and she frantically began to search. Where was her arm? Did that man burn it? She noticed the blood splatter from her original arm on the wall. Her original left arm had been removed, the pool of blood now a crimson stain on the floor. She finally found the contraption to the right of the fire with a note attached.

Disregarding the note as she tore it off and let it fall to the floor, she grabbed the arm. She picked up her jacket and picked out her wand and threw the coat back on the floor. _"Give me the strength and the power to forge my own future, whatever that may be,"_ she chanted as she infused the object with her magic. The runes seared themselves into the arm, glowing blue for a moment. She took a stray nail and carved the rune for Puppet String into it. She infused that with magic as well. She waved the wand and directly connect the two, allowing her to constantly cast that spell without it. She could move it like any limb. She could command it like a familiar. She put it on: she strapped it to her body through a belt tied around her waist and a metal collar she had made. As long as it would hold, it would be fine.

It was a little weird. It was slightly heavy, but she knew it would take some adjusting. It reacted immediately to her and she tried to move it like her old arm. It was a little hard to wrap her mind around it at first, but she got the hang of it. She flexed the wooden fingers and stretched the arm to gauge its functionality. It worked flawlessly! She was proud of her little invention.

Her eyes widened as she remembered. She looked back at the note: "Went out to get food. Will be back." She squeaked when she read it. Someone had found her. She needed to leave. She needed to get out. Now. She threw her coat over her shoulders and pulled her new arm through the sleeve along with her right almost as if nothing had changed. It felt so strange not to feel anything with what she touched. She worried about her self-control. She'd have to practice later.

She bolted to the door in a rush. She froze when a shadow blocked the desert sun. He had returned, sporting a sack over his shoulder. "You're up…," he asked her as he tilted his head. "What a relief! I was worried you wouldn't pull through!" He walked out of the door and she could clearly see him. He had dark blue pants and red socks along with the faded red shirt she saw him wear from before. He had some stubble on his chin, though light and kept shaved. His wavy dark brown hair started to grey at the ends and even had some streaks running from the center of his head. He was thin but nourished. His hands had started to show his age, slightly wrinkled and bony. His eyes looked perpetually tired and the lines around them didn't help make him look any less so.

"What do you want with me," she interrogated, backing away. She had her hand above the right pocket of her coat.

"A little gratitude," he requested with a raised eyebrow. "I saved your life, after all." He leaned to the side, his right hand on his hip.

"Saved my life," she snapped as if deeply offended. "You don't just save someone's life without an ulterior motive! What do you really want?" She didn't move. She had learned to be suspicious of people during the very first year she left home. She watched him for any signs of trickery. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on the man who had claimed to save her life.

He sighed and set the bag down. "You're right… I do have other plans," he openly admitted as he looked down, his palms out and away from his sides. "I need money. Bounty hunting's hit a lull, recently. On top of that, what money I had when I set off with from Hamelin has nearly run out." He relaxed and looked up with a smirk. "But you're just a kid. A kid in that was in a bad way."

She reached into her pocket for her gun. She gasped when she couldn't find it. She reached for her wand instead and held it out in an offensive stance. "You won't be taking me anywhere. This _kid_ won't let you."

His eyes widened and he frowned, recognizing the wand in question. _Lynnea? She has her wand?_ His eyebrows furrowed as he glared at her. "Don't try to fight me. I'm on your side, trust me." He shook his head and continued to watch her.

"On my side?!" She gripped her wand with both hands. "You plan to turn me in! You plan to hand me over! Do you know what they'd probably do to me?!" She gritted her teeth.

He raised his head a little. He almost seemed to grin menacingly to her. "You don't think I know that? I helped you so you would have a fighting chance. I helped you because you're just a kid! You don't deserve that kind of fate." His concerned voice contradicted the look on his face. "I actually have the leverage to make your sentence less severe." He crossed his arms and rolled his head. "Whether you chose to cooperate or not is no consequence."

"You?! How could you," she questioned shaking her head. "And even if you could, why?! Because I'm helpless?" She felt tears of frustration stream down her face. She shook her head. She didn't need him. She felt she had been doing fine on her own. She wasn't going to be coddled. "I'm not completely helpless! And like hell I'll do anything you tell me," she shouted, stomping her feet. "My own father couldn't tell me what to do! You certainly won't either!"

"You're a runaway, then?" His eyes narrowed in suspicion. _This is strangely coincidental. First, Lynnea goes missing and then this girl…_ "Are you from Hamelin, by chance?" Her eyes widened and she looked up at him. "You are, aren't you." He reached into his belt and pulled out her version of the pickpocketing pistol. He analyzed it briefly, curiously as he smirked at its design. He began to wonder if she _was_ the missing princess. "Explains this." He saw her sudden unsure and enraged expression. Her hands trembled as she looked up at him. "Oh, calm down, you lousy thief."

"Lousy- I'm not lousy," she claimed. She looked down, doubting herself for a moment. _No. This demented old fool doesn't know what he's talking about!_ "I'm a great thief!" _I'm a great thief…_ the girl repeated in her head. She gritted her teeth as she growled out, "I'm sneaky! I'm good at pickpocketing! I can steal things right out from under your nose!"

"Then why is there a bounty on your head? If you were any good, people wouldn't know who you are," he retorted with a scoff. "Give up! Go home! Either that or turn yourself in! You'll end up dead, otherwise." He looked down, regret in his eyes. "Turn back. You still have time. Do so before it's too late."

"I'm not going to give up! I want to be like the legend! I want to be like Swaine," she fussed glaring at him. "I'll fight you if I have to! I won't let anyone stand in my way." He looked up in shock at her. His mouth hung open for a moment. Was this what his legend was doing to people? He thanked the heavens for that part of the pure-hearted one's own tale being so small, lest history would horribly repeat itself. He closed his mouth, his face set.

He began to march up to her. She unleashed a couple of fireball attacks in self-defense. With each blow he winced but patted himself down, putting out the flames. He continued to advance to her horror. He grabbed her right hand and stared her down. "You listen to me. Swaine was a _fool_. He was a runaway, just like you. He left home, left his _nine-year-old_ brother all alone. Before he even had the chance to make anything good of himself, his father died with hardly the chance to say goodbye. He was a _failure_ as a person."

"Liar," she shouted as she shook her head. She stared up at his disbelieving eyes. "He helped save the world! He was a hero and a master thief!" She tried to yank her hand out of his grip. She faced him again, her expression fierce and determined. "And he cared about his friends! He cared about his family! No way he'd do something like that!"

He remained unmoved. His eyes were hard and unwavering. "Oh, he did. And he regretted it, too. Until he joined the chosen one, his life was nothing but misery and suffering," he told venomously. "Yours will, too, if you don't heed my warning."

She raised her left arm and drew the rune for fireball. To her amazement, it worked as it propelled the man back with a burst of fire. He fell on the floor with his hands spread in front of his head. As he recovered from the blast, she cried, "And how would you know?!" She stomped up to the man to look down at him.

There was a lamenting laugh and he slowly got up. "Because I've lived it," he revealed somberly. He tossed her gun aside and drew the Cad's Cannon, a mauve gun with golden accents and a blue oval near the end of the rounded barrel. He didn't aim it at her. Instead, he held it up, the muzzle facing towards the left corner of the building and the ceiling. "That's who I use to be," he continued, patting the burnt fabric of his shirt.

"An angry old man like you! Hah! That's a laugh!" She placed her hands on her hips and stared at the man incredulously.

"Everyone grows old, even your heroes," he reflected bitterly. He looked down in thought. He wanted to save this girl from that life. She still had a chance. He reminded her so much of the little niece he knew. If she was, all the more reason to dissuade her. Her arm… she had been through so much pain already. Even he would have considered returning home after such a loss. He looked up sympathetically at her. "Don't you miss home?"

"No. I don't." She looked away. "I never felt like I belonged there." She looked down. She laughed bitterly. "I know it sounds like a cliché but…" She exhaled deeply. "My destiny was chosen for me. I wanted to forge my own future instead of everyone telling me how to live the future they wanted for me." She looked up again at a slightly disheartened Swaine. "I'd never be the person they'd want me to be," she shouted. "I'm broken! I can never live up to my family's expectations!"

"So instead you decided to live in the shadow of a legend," he jeered. "I don't think you quite understood their intentions." He sighed and picked up the bag. He walked over to the corner of the room and set it down. He sat against the wall and looked up at her. "Your father truly wanted what's best for you, more than likely." He smirked. "Mine did too. I was just too stubborn to see it." He frowned when she looked away. "You should go home. I'm sure your family misses you."

"So what if they do," She replied bitterly, hollowly. She looked at him. "They'd just get in my way like you're doing now."

"They'd try to help you _find_ your way." He sighed and shook his head as he looked down. He looked up defeatedly at her. "Look, what do I have to do in order to get you to give up being a thief?"

She thought for a moment as she looked the man over. If he really was the legendary master thief from her uncle's stories, his time was numbered. "Teach me your tricks."

He shot up from the ground and stared wide-eyed at her. "What?! And push you even further into that horrible life?" He shook his head. "No. Not a chance!"

She crossed her arms defiantly. "Then I'm not going home and I'm not going with you." She eyed him cautiously.

He looked her over. Whatever fight she had been in cost the girl her arm. She needed _something_ other than the skills she had to survive in any situation. He sighed and cursed his bleeding heart. "Fine. I give up." He smirked at her. "If you promise to give up this life of criminal behavior and go home, I'll teach you a few of my tricks." When she grinned at him he frowned. "One thing, though."

Her face fell when she heard that. She pressed both arms to her hips and swayed from side to side. "What?"

"These are for your safety. Don't you dare use them for any other reason than your own protection, got it." He wagged a finger at her.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. She shrugged and threw her hands up. "Fine. Fine." She walked over to the corner where her gun lied. She picked it up and put it in her pocket. "I'll use them for good and all that." She scoffed and rolled her eyes as she sat on the other side of what used to be a campfire.

Then she began to wonder. She had been out cold for most of that time. "How long was I out?"

"I'd say about a week. It took you a while to recover, thanks to losing your arm." He got up and looked at the blood splatter. "It was nothing but mush. I don't blame you for cutting it off." He threw a confident smirk at the girl sitting on the floor. It disappeared, however the longer he looked at her. "You were so malnourished, though. Your body was struggling to heal. You even developed a fever."

She looked down thoughtfully and nodded. She watched as he retrieved his coat from the floor and put it back on. "We should probably move if I have a bounty on my head," she pointed out.

Swaine nodded. "You're right. We should." He walked over to the pack and flung it over his shoulder. "I hope you like walking… er…" He had a sneaking suspicion of her identity. On the chance she wasn't who he thought she was, he dared not call her name. This girl was smart. If she _was_ his missing niece, Marcassin's daughter, then she'd in time figure out his true identity, thereby confirming his own suspicion.

"Scrofie," she introduced. "The name's Scrofie."

"Scrofie the wizarding thief," he joked with a raised eyebrow. "You must come from a line of sages. Most wizards died out when the Dark Djinn plagued the world." He walked toward the door. "So, care to tell which sage?"

"Even if I was related to one of the sages, I wouldn't tell you." She glared up at him. "I mean, it would be pretty obvious considering where I'm from."

He nodded as they began to leave the building, the girl following him. "Right. Hamelin. You'd be related to the Great Sage Marcassin, right?" She stayed silent for a moment. "Well," he asked when she didn't answer. They had reached the edge of the oasis.

"Yeah. I would," she quietly answered. "But I'm not, so don't get any ideas," she snapped.

"Okay, okay! Keep your hair on," he returned with a chuckle, glancing back over his left shoulder as it was the shoulder without a large pack slung over it. He looked out into the desert. "I hope you like walking, cause we're doing a lot of it."

"I'm fine! Let's go," she cheered, running ahead into the sands. She stopped and turned back to face him. She cupped her hands and shouted back, "C'mon, old man Swaine! Let's get out of here!" She laughed when began to trudge after her, irritably muttering to himself.


	4. Promise

Returning home was always hard. Even during his journeys with Oliver, a pang of unease always hit him. The past. Those damn memories. They were the reason he roamed after all that had happened- after defeating Shadar and the White Witch. One day, out of nowhere, he felt a strange urge to go back. He had been sitting in an unnamed inn in a small town in the rolling hills eating breakfast. He remembered holding a fork full of his next bite of egg and staring at it.

This life of a nomad wouldn't last. He knew it. The bounties were slowly beginning to cease now that there was no Dark Djinn or White Witch. If any bounty appeared, it would be for fetching items or carrying an item out to someone. Those didn't always pay as well as the monsters trying to wreak havoc on the world. Swift Solutions would have to start _really_ putting bounties on criminals effectively turning the usual kind-hearted business into a mercenary business of headhunters, he reasoned.

He had set his fork down and stared at his plate. He'd have to find something else to do with his life, hero or no. Fame was great, but it didn't always pay for his food- it didn't always give him that sense of purpose he sought. He finished his meal as he continued to ponder what he would do. There was only one answer that came to mind, sadly. Go home. Return to Hamelin. Find something there.

And be trapped underground breathing in the smoggy air and barely see the sun again. He sighed as he got up and returned to his room. Quite the quandary, but a quandary he would have to face.

He recalled packing up his things and heading out. He trekked across the desert and to Cast Away Cove to travel to Autumnia. It took almost a week and a half to return to Hamelin. By that point, he had made up his mind. He knew just what to do, where to go, who to speak with. He knew how to do it.

He marched up to the palace and through the gates, the guards recognizing him and letting him through without question. Every time he walked through those gates like that, he felt like he owned the place once again- that he was the same prince so full of himself that had left home nearly twenty years ago. It never lasted, for he always saw his reflection in the glass. It shattered whatever self-empowered fantasy he had and reminded him who he had become, what he really was.

He always felt regret, no matter what. It persisted along with his pride in what he had accomplished. Oh, but he still had a long way to go. A hero yes, but he still felt he had some duty to fulfill here, whatever it was. He smirked as he marched briskly to the throne room. He stared up at the doors, frowning. He felt the anxiety threaten to rise up but with deep exhale, he pushed it down into his gut. This had to be done. He knocked on the doors.

"Marcassin," he called out, his voice steady. "May I speak with you?" He waited calmly. As he did so, his nervousness threatened to rise up again. He gritted his teeth and began to question his sudden apprehension. _He's your brother_ , he thought. _It's not like he's going to bite. Get a hold of yourself!_ He shook his head and threw his hand against it, letting it slide down so his fingers obscured his eyes. He looked through them and sighed.

"Come in, brother," Marcassin answered from within. There was an odd hint of joy in his voice he hadn't heard in some time. Something had changed- for the better it seemed.

He swallowed as he opened the door. He marched in, his back straight. When he reached the standing sage, he took a knee and bowed his head. "I've returned once again, brother," he greeted as he placed his right hand over his heart. "…To offer any service you require." He didn't look up. He had to do this right, he had to show humility. By status, he was lesser than the sage, a commoner.

"What… are you doing?" The younger prince looked curiously at the scene before him. "I don't quite understand why you're kneeling to me."

"I believe I was clear. I'm offering you my services- as a commoner." He held his breath and held back his own pride. "Just give me something- anything! I'll do it."

"Then rise," he ordered, staring down at the older man in rags. "You are not a commoner. You are a hero. Rise." He waved a hand up.

He finally looked up with widened eyes. "But I…" He lowered his gaze and nodded hesitantly. "Right. Yes, Marcassin." He stood but averted his now confused gaze.

"And never kneel to me again," he commanded. "You are my brother and my equal. If you need help, simply just ask." He smiled comfortingly at him.

Swaine looked up without a word for a moment. He nodded and smiled affirmatively. "Thank you." He looked down again with a slight frown. "What would you have me do? I can't continue wandering the land like I have- that's what brought me here."

A loud bout of laughter and a slap on the shoulder caught him off guard. He looked puzzled at his younger brother. "Well, first- a drink would be nice, Gascon," he suggested with an overjoyed smile.

"A drink," the older man repeated. "Since when do you drink?" He smirked a bit at him, though still a little perplexed. He began to wonder what they would be celebrating… Then he remembered- his younger brother had found someone. He remembered that they had gotten married while he was away. He remembered not being able to make it to their wedding- another regret to add to the pile. Despite it, his younger was understanding. Perhaps it was a little late, but he reasoned it couldn't be helped. As long as she made him happy, that was all he cared about.

"Since I'm expecting an heir! When else," he answered, his cheeks blushing.

He gasped and looked down at his brother. "An heir…? Marcassin, you…," he could only say for a moment. He sported a wide smile and wrapped his left arm around the sage. He shook him and laughed. "I can't believe it! You- a father? How great is that?!"

"And you'll be an uncle." Marcassin looked up at him and noticed the sudden unsure look on his face. He chuckled at his brother's sincerity. "Don't be so worried. I think you'll be a great uncle. You've had plenty of practice," he reassured the former rogue. He broke out of the embrace and looked away. "I'm worried about my capabilities, myself."

Swaine smirked and he reached out to pat the ruler's shoulder reassuringly. "I can help with that. Just say the word."

The sage looked up in shock. He raised his hands with his palms out in front of him and shook his head. "No. No, no, no, no. I shouldn't do that to you, brother. I will not place my responsibilities on your shoulders." He looked away in thought, placing a hand to his chin. "We'll come up with something." He looked back at Swaine with a sly smile. "In fact… how about you join us for dinner!"

"Dinner?" He jumped and looked uncertainly at his younger brother. "I certainly wouldn't want to impose," he tried to deny.

"A feast," Marcassin replied. "We'll hold a feast for your return and for the future of the coming heir," he grandly announced. He walked to the doors and opened them to send for a servant.

Swane felt like he had just opened the floodgates of some unstoppable force. He didn't want him to make such a fuss over him. "I really don't think that's nece-," He tried to dissuade nervously.

"Nonsense!" He smiled back at the older man. "A family ought to eat together!"

He felt a cold sweat down his back and a nervous smile crossed his face. "I- I'm flattered, Marcassin, but I'm not- look at me," he protested, raising a hand. "I don't think I'd look right at your dinner table, now would I," he explained, drawing attention to torn clothes he wore.

The younger brother took a moment to look at the state of the older. He was in desperate need of new clothes as his current ones were patched up and damaged beyond repair. He nodded silently and walked out of the room.

He followed the regally dressed sage to the door. As he was about to open them, Marcassin popped his head back through and pointed at him. "Stay here. I may be able to locate some clothes that once belonged to father." He looked down in thought for a moment. "Or perhaps even something from your old closet would do."

"Hold on, my room hasn't been cleared out since I left?" He raised an eyebrow with a knowing smirk at his brother. "You could have made better use of the space, you know."

The sage sighed before looking up. "Why not have it upkept? You'd have to have a place to stay if you came home." He smiled at the older man. "Surely that is the best use for it!" With that, he turned around and left.

He waited there for what felt like an hour watching the doors. When Marcassin returned he gave him a turquoise shirt and a pair of purple pants. "Here. I hope these will do."

The outfit was rather loose. He theorized his brother had gone straight to his room to find it. It made him all the more thankful for the brown belt he wore. He had gotten thinner. The pants no longer stopped at his ankles, but rather above them. He raised an eyebrow at the ensemble as he tested his movement by raising either leg. "Don't suppose I had a coat," he asked as a shiver went through him.

The sage hummed thoughtfully. "I can look…," he suggested.

Gascon sighed and shook his head. "No, you've done enough." He smiled gratefully. "This will do until I can get something else."

They celebrated. The sage, true to his word, held a huge feast. The food spread across the table. A large pig, bread, and various sides and treats were treated to them right along with champagne poured by an over-exuberant Marcassin.

"To reunited," the sage began to toast with a glass of champagne. He looked at his brother with a confident smile. He looked over at a woman dressed in a dark purple top and long pink skirt. She had long, straight brown hair and blue eyes as well as a slight tan. She was healthy, her complexion clear, her body trim. She had a kind face. "And future family!" The two raised their glasses to join him.

"So, you must be Gascon," she began as she reached for a piece of bread. "Marcassin never stops talking about you." The servants came around and began to carve the pig.

"I can imagine," he returned dishing up his sides from the center. He held out his plate graciously for some of the pork. "You must be Josephine, the woman who stole my brother's heart," he complimented, smiling as he began to cut into the meat with his knife.

She laughed and smiled back at him. "Oh please. He stole mine!" She laughed again at the blush on Marcassin's face. "Look at him trying to be all innocent."

"He's really good at that," the older brother retorted before taking a bite of his meal. "How did you two meet," he inquired as he looked back at the woman across from him.

It was her turn to blush. She glanced here and there. "Well, it was almost love at first sight."

"Oh," Gascon mused, leaning forward. He took another bite of his food and raised an eyebrow quizzically. He swallowed. "A fairytale romance?"

She giggled and looked up at her brother-in-law. "We met in the market. I had dropped my groceries and he bent down to pick them up for me." She tilted her head. "When I stood up straight and finally looked at him to thank him, I met his eyes." She blushed again and looked away. "And I realized who he was and tried to apologize for having him do something like that."

"Let me guess: he insisted it was his pleasure and that's all she wrote," he coyly jabbed with a forkful of vegetables.

"Sort of. He asked me if I was alright and if I needed any help with anything- anything at all." She grinned. "It wasn't long until we started seeing each other."

He gave a short laugh and smirked. "Funny how little things make most of the differences in the world, right?" He nodded and glanced between the two of them. "I congratulate both of you for finding something so special."

The sage gave an affirmative nod. "Thank you, Gascon. That means a lot coming from you." He paused for a moment. "And I'm glad you approve."

"Approve…?" For a moment, he seemed confused on what he meant. He looked up at Josephine. "Ah. Well, why wouldn't I? She seems genuinely sweet! I'm sure you two have a lot in common."

Marcassin chuckled at his brother's assumption. "Oh, it's quite the opposite, really. She has no magic. In fact, she was a mechanic before she joined me on the throne." He fondly smiled at the woman next to him. He abruptly stood up when the former rogue began to cough violently. "Are you quite alright?"

Gascon shook his head and took a sip of water. He breathed heavily and looked up with tears in the corner of his eyes from the sudden fit. "Are you flipping serious," he rasped. "I mean not that I dislike your taste, but… doesn't that sound familiar at all to you," he hinted as his voice slowly returned to him.

"I'm well aware of what you mean and what you're implying but that isn't the reason we fell in love." He smiled over at the woman in question. "I fell for a kind and honest woman who cared about her fellow man, a woman who loves me as much as I love her." He reached across the table and looked into her eyes longingly. "I could not ask for a better empress to rule by my side."

Months seemed to pass as he stayed in the palace with them. Despite his brother's chagrin, he made himself useful constantly- attending to Josephine if she needed anything. It was the least he could do until he or Marcassin could figure out a role for him. There were days when the smog of the city became too much and he had to leave town just to get a breath of fresh air. He started to miss drifting from place to place as the days flew by.

"You really don't have to do this," Josephine reminded him as he fetched a blanket for her from Marcassin's closet. "This is the job of a servant, not a prince."

"Oh, please. What else is there to do? Draw up blueprints," he threw back at her as he returned with a folded blanket. "The engineering division has that covered." He unfolded the blanket and aired it out before spreading it over the expecting sister-in-law. "Anything to keep Marcassin and his lovely wife happy."

"You're too kind, Prince Gascon." She smiled as he pulled up a chair. "Oh, what now," she groaned at him.

"I've decided to keep you company," he mused. "While Marcassin's running the kingdom there should be no reason for you to be lonely, your majesty." He smiled at her sweetly, comfortingly.

"You'd do anything for your brother, wouldn't you," she observed as she looked up at Gascon. "And you don't need to call me 'your majesty'. Josephine is fine." She flashed a smile at him.

"Yeah. I would." He laughed nervously and looked up at the ceiling of the room, admiring the deep blue curtains that matched the ones in the throne room. "I've even fought heartbreak just to help him."

She held a hand to her mouth as she gasped. "You were one of the broken-hearted?"

He nodded as he looked down at his hands. He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah," he divulged hesitantly. "To make things worse… A nightmare possessed me." He sighed heavily and balled his hands into fists. "It was driven by my own volition, my own regret. I was in a really bad spot." He looked up and looked over at her with a sad smile. "Sorry. I don't mean to trouble you with my bad experiences."

She had slid a hand under her pillow and held the other in front of her in thought. "It's alright," she quietly eased. "You want to know something?" She smiled when she heard a hum in response. "I'm glad he has such a caring older brother like you. I'm sure he wouldn't be the same person if you didn't exist." She looked up and her bright blue eyes met his brown ones. "Thank you for everything you've done and everything you're trying to do for him."

She reached up and took his right hand and carefully rested it on her belly. "I'm sure this one's grateful to you, too." She almost laughed at the blush he now sported. "So modest," she joked.

He let a fond smile grace his lips as he looked down at his right hand. "This kid may be yours and Marcassin's, but I promise to look out for them as if they're my own." He chuckled when the child responded with a kick. He hummed thoughtfully at the notion. "Would you allow me, Josephine?"

"Hah." She closed her eyes in thought. "I certainly wouldn't mind. Don't tie yourself down too much, alright? I don't think my dear husband wants to bother you."

"And since when has he bothered me," he posed as he removed his hand. He smirked as he looked at it. "This is something beautiful you're creating. I want to be there to see it." He stood up defiantly the very same right hand clenched into a fist. He looked into her eyes stubbornly. "If it means fetching a thousand blankets and keeping you company until he has time, then so be it."

She huffed through her nose and squeaked in amusement. "I guess there's no stopping you, is there, Gascon," she responded mellowly. "I can only hope our child has as much stubbornness and enthusiasm as you. Surely they won't get it from their father." She sighed contently and curled up in the blankets even more. "He's so gentle, even as a ruler. Always trying to kind to anyone in need. Even when he's forced to make a decision, he does so with grace."

Gascon rolled his eyes. "Please. Marcassin once clung to the back of my leg because he thought I'd disappear. I'm sure this little one will be just as much of a handful." He rubbed the back of his head as he looked away. He recalled the parts of his childhood looking after the younger prince. "Was he ever so little," he asked himself, the fondness of the memory edging into his voice.

The months continued to pass for them. Gascon, tired of having no time to discuss whatever role awaited him, had begun to peruse the city for work. It appeared his younger brother had done his job _too_ well because most positions were filled. Hardly anyone was looking for help. He often found himself trudging back to the palace to look after Josephine.

When he returned one day the servants seemed even more in a frenzy than usual. He approached a guard curiously. "Er… What's going on," he asked the armor-clad man. "Is there something wrong? Did something happen?"

"The Empress… She's- She's giving birth," the guard stammered. He regained his composure. "The next in line is being born, Prince Gascon."

His eyes widened and he began to run to his brother's room. He stood at the doors now blocked by two royal guards. He approached them calmly but halted at the shouts of pain. For once, he hesitated at the noise. Such a shout he had only heard in battle and with it the instinct to jump into action. The context was so much different here. There was nothing he could do but watch and listen. He didn't know if he had the stomach to simply stand by as she writhed in pain, as she brought the next in line into the world. It was one of those things in life that rode the line of inhumane and entirely natural all the same time- a necessary evil of nature. _I don't belong in that room_. He thought as he continued to hesitate at the doors. _This is Marcassin's and Josephine's moment, not mine._

As he turned to walk away, the aforementioned brother stepped out of the doors. "Gascon," he breathed- the toll of childbirth, of supporting his wife, beginning to weigh down on him. "I'm glad you're here. She could really use the support."

He turned around with a shocked expression on his face. "Really," was all he could say.

The sage bowed his head and sighed. "Yes. Really, brother. If you insist to be there for our child then it's all the more important that you witness this." He sighed heavily once more as he looked up at the older man. "I'm warning you. It isn't a pretty sight in there. I wouldn't blame you if you passed out, even."

A knowing smirk appeared on his face and he nodded. He walked up to his younger brother and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Allow me to help in any way I can, Marcassin."

The sage beamed up at him and they entered the room. As Marcassin took her left hand Gascon took her right. She turned her head in shock to look at him. Her hair was a mess from all the tossing and turning and sweat ran down her face and her neck. "What are… you doing… here," she asked between gasps.

He kindly smiled at her. "I told you, didn't I? I wanted to be here to see it no matter what." He looked up at his brother who cast a surprised look at him. He gave a firm nod, gripped her right hand, and looked down at her. "We're with you all the way, Josephine."

"Yes. For now, just breathe and push," her husband guided her.

Hours of labor went by before finally the child was born. The two princes seemed to breathe a sigh of relief in unison. Not even the cries of the newborn baby girl or the stench of blood and whatever else came with it could ruin the victory they had just experienced. The child, cleaned with warm water and wrapped in cloth was handed to the new mother and father as her uncle watched distantly.

Marcassin looked up at his older brother as he smiled. "Thank you for being here, brother." He looked back down at the red-faced infant, her cries still piercing the air. "Ssh… It's alright."

"What are you going to name her," he asked curiously with his hands on his hips as he looked at his newest family member.

"Lynnea," Josephine cooed, holding a finger down to the baby. The infant grabbed it and seemed to quiet down. "I like Lynnea." She looked up and smiled at her husband.

"Lynnea it is," the sage agreed as he wrapped his right arm around her shoulders. He peered down happily at his daughter. "Dark brown hair, just like two other people I know," he commented on the tuff of hair on the infant's head.

Gascon nodded at the group and made for the door. "I'll leave you three alone." He looked back on them with knowing a smile.

"Probably for the best that I leave as well," Marcassin noted as he looked up at the physicians patiently waiting. "They probably want to make sure you're both healthy." He held his hand to his nose. "And give you some sort of bath, my dear."

She giggled and gave a nod before focusing again on little Lynnea. "We'll have later, Marcassin." She ran a gentle hand over her daughter's head. "Daddy's going to go now. He's going to go protect the world," she softly explained to the infant.

The sage hummed proudly in response before turning and walking out the door with his brother. When he paused in the hall he felt a slap on the back from the older man and looked up.

"How does it feel, Marcassin, to finally be a father?" He grinned cheekily at his finer dressed sibling.

He nervously chuckled in response. "It's frightening!" He looked down with a small smile. "But exciting." He looked up at his brother. "There are so many things I want to see her accomplish. There are so many things I'm worried about." He looked in front of him again, frowning. "I want her to be a powerful sage, but if not, then I want her to be great at whatever she's passionate for." He smiled. "In a way, I kind of want her to be like you, brother: a responsible, stubborn, and talented person unafraid to take matters into her own hands."

Gascon looked down, frowning. "But I haven't, Marcassin- taking matters into my own hands, that is." He looked back at the sage. "I asked you to find a position for me in the empire rather than seeking it myself."

"Quiet yourself, Gascon. You came here of your own volition. It was your choice to ask me and your choice to even try." Marcassin took his brother's arm and looked up with a smile. "I'm sure there's something you can do." He looked back at the door. "For now, just be a good uncle to Lynnea." He began to walk forward and stopped suddenly, a thought occurring to him. He looked back with a surprised smile. "Your birthdays are within the same month!" He twirled energetically. "Next week!"

The former rogue looked at him in confusion then realized the date. He stepped back. "It is!" He ran a hand through his hair and looked down. It had been quite a while since anyone had remembered. He began to forget about it himself. "That's- that's amazing!" He threw a cautionary smile at the sage. "Don't go overboard with the celebration. I certainly don't need it."

Marcassin bowed courteously at his older brother. "I shall not if you wish. But you shall receive gifts for that is long overdue." As he straightened himself, he seemed to remember something and began to run off.

"Wa- Marcassin, where are you off to now," he shouted as he began to give chase.

"You go and bathe. You need it," the younger brother called back. "I have to check something important! It's for the sake of the kingdom."

At that, the older brother stopped. He decided to heed his brother's words and take to the royal baths. His joints seemed to ache from standing so long. Perhaps steam would loosen them.

The week passed before long and the memory of his birthday buried itself under other tasks such as helping Josephine and Lynnea with whatever they needed, even if it were just keeping them company.

He had been playing with the infant princess, keeping her entertained and healthy while her mother and father seemed to be tending to other matters. He often found himself mimicking her noises back when she made them- a habit the baby seemed to enjoy. The door opened suddenly as both his brother and sister-in-law marched in. He stood up straight and stretched his back after leaning too far over the crib. He eyed them curiously. Their royal duties never really ended until evening. He began to wonder if it was due to both of them handling the empire.

Then he saw what Josephine was carrying. It looked like a folded outfit. He looked at Marcassin who was holding a legal document.

The younger sibling cleared his throat. "Prince Gascon," he declared as he approached first. "I am assigning you the role of ambassador of not only Hamelin but the Pig Iron Empire. As an ambassador, you shall conduct negotiations on behalf of the empire with other kingdoms near and far. This role has been awarded to you for your service and heroism on behalf of the entire world." He smiled up at the now awestruck man. "To put it simply, brother, your wandering now serves a greater purpose. If I should need negotiations done, I will send you. You can leave and I will supply you funds not only for your travels but for your service."

"Then… You mean-," he began to reason, his shock too great to form a concise response.

"You won't be trapped _here_ , Gascon. You'll be free, brother," he cheered excitedly. He found himself in a massive bear hug. He gasped but didn't resist, only looking over at his brother.

"Thank you," he cried, holding him tighter. "Thank you for this, Marcassin."

"Don't thank me. You've earned this." He returned the hug with a proud smile. "I'm proud of you, Gascon."

Josephine approached the two siblings. "But you can't possibly go in those old things," she suggested, holding up the clothes. "I made these for you."

Gascon let go of Marcassin and eyed her quizzically. He looked at the folded clothes. "You're a tailor, too," he wondered. He looked back up at her with slight suspicion but also a bit of levity. "I thought you were a mechanic."

The Empress rolled her eyes. "My mother was one of Hamelin's finest tailors." She glanced to the side then back again. "No royal outfitter, but still worthy of the upper class. She taught me a lot of things before I set out to be a mechanic." She flashed a smile at him and tilted her head. "I've been practicing off and on."

He took the clothes and stared down at them. "Umm… Thank you… but…" He looked up at her with a slight blush. "How'd you get my measurements?"

"Simple. I asked your brother and measured your old clothes to the letter," she answered. "You walk so much and eat so little that you haven't put on any weight since you arrived." She placed a hand over her mouth as she giggled. "No wonder Marcassin worries about you so." She removed her hand and shooed him impatiently. "Go on, go try them on. We'll wait here." She looked over at the crib and walked over to it. She peered over the side to look at her daughter. "I'm sure Lynnea misses her mama and papa," she cooed as she shook her head at the infant. "Don't you, dear," she said as she reached in to tickle her.

Gascon sighed gruffly before smirking at her. "For a moment, you'd think _I_ was the child," he snidely remarked.

"You be quiet," Marcassin playfully warned as he watched his older brother walk out of their room. When the newly christened ambassador returned, he wore a bright golden trench coat and red tunic underneath and dark blue pants to go with it. The dark brown belt he wore across it replaced his old one, the buckle glimmering in the light. The lapels of the coat were pink, matching the edges of the sleeve cuffs that folded back.

Josephine, now holding the infant, smiled at the sight of a job well done. "How is it? Did I do well? I hope it isn't uncomfortable. I've been working on it for months."

"It's perfect," he complimented her. He moved around in it some more and even felt the smooth sturdy fabric of his coat. "I never knew your work as a mechanic, but you certainly are one hell of a seamstress!" He looked over at Marcassin then back at her. "Maybe you could update my brother's style!"

The younger brother put his hands on his hips. "And what's wrong with my style?"

"You never once changed it! I think you were still wearing something like that before I left twenty-one years ago!" He motioned to his brother.

"I-," he began to protest. "These are royal-," he tried again. He slumped a little and heaved a defeated sigh. "Perhaps you're right. However, the people know me as this. It would be wrong of me to change, now." He smiled at Gascon confidently. "However, this change, Gascon… It suits you well."

Josephine added a supportive nod. "It definitely suits an ambassador."

"What of Lynnea? Will you be alright without me here," he wondered as he directed his attention to mother and daughter.

"We'll manage. Don't you worry your silly head," she answered, balancing the tiny princess in her arms and over her shoulder. "Won't we?" She looked over at the sleeping child. "See, she's already taking the lead… What a sweet girl you are," she whispered at the content baby.

* * *

"Hey, Swaine," Scrofie nudged as they walked. "You alright," she asked when he looked down at her. "I said it might be best to camp for the night."

He shook his head and smirked down at her. She reminded him so much of Lynnea and so much of her mother. He knew she had to be one and the same, that she had to be Lynnea. When he looked at her arm, he wished that wasn't the reality. He felt the regret of not being there rise. So, he never once brought up his other mission. He prayed that this mutilated misguided girl wasn't his niece.

He nodded and stopped. "Sure." He set down the pack and found himself sinking to the ground, the warmth of the soft sand easing his increasingly aching joints. "I'm getting too old for this, Scrofie," he complained as he rubbed his knees.

"If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?" She sat as well as she observed the man who now fished provisions out of his bag for them both.

He groaned and looked down at his bread and his left hand. He flexed it and rotated it. "Fifty-seven." He bit a piece off of the bread. "It's been twenty-three years since I helped the pure-hearted one save the world," he said through a mouthful. "Twenty-three years of wandering, twenty-three years of hunting bounties, and exactly seventeen years of working as a glorified messenger for Hamelin." He shrugged. "The title it comes with is nice, though. Plus I'm doing something that benefits my homeland, so there's that."

There were times she wondered if he recognized her as his niece if he really was her uncle. She hadn't seen him in so long. Every two years without fail he would have returned. Then one day, he stopped. He seemed to have vanished and she didn't know why. She looked down at her food. "Umm… Swaine, there's something I want to ask you."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Shoot."

She was silent for a moment and then she looked away. "Nothing… Never mind. It's stupid." And with that, she ate her rations. She pulled the hoodie up over her head and rolled over to sleep. "Good night, Swaine."

The ambassador looked over her. He smiled and nodded as he turned his head to face the starry sky. "Good night, Kiddo."

 _Good night… Lynnea._


	5. Identity

Swaine felt someone shove his back as he lied on sands of the desert. His head was buried in his arms as he tried to find the will to move. "Get up! We need to start moving! Are you lazy or what," Scrofie insulted as she continued to shake him. She heard him growl then mumble irritably back at her. "What? I couldn't quite hear you! Maybe _I'm_ getting old!" Funny, it was that very reason he couldn't get up.

Everything ached. Every last joint in his body, it seemed. He turned his head up so his mouth was free. "I said. GETTING OLD HURTS!" He glared up at the teen. He gritted his teeth and looked down at the sand. It was starting to heat up. He needed to get up soon. "And now I'm facing a slight predicament. The sand will get to almost unbearable temperatures but my joints seem to have it out for me." He sighed and rolled his eyes. It seemed it would be one of _those_ days. "Out you come, boy," he called defeatedly, his chest glowing green for a moment, summoning a giant white furry ape-like creature. "You know the drill." He nodded at his familiar.

Scrofie watched as it gently scooped him up and carefully put the man on its back. The man in question managed to finally sit up and peer over its head. "Thanks, Squish'." He looked up at the girl's puzzled expression.

"But- You shouldn't be able to- how," she tried to argue. She recalled the thief being absent of magic according to the stories. "You shouldn't be able to use familiars! Not without magic, at least!"

He blinked as he stared over the papa sasquash's head, tilting his own. "I don't," he answered. He reached under his shirt and pulled out a necklace with a green pendant on it. "I keep my familiars in here. It's kind of like a locket, but for familiars." He twirled it. "Pretty neat, huh," he showed off, smirking.

The beast walked up to her and nuzzled her gently. "Woah," she exclaimed. "Tell it to stop doing that you nutter," she demanded. It growled sympathetically when it looked at her arm.

"Nah. He likes you, that's all." He petted the back of the yeti. "Squishy here has a mind of his own, sometimes. I appreciate that in my familiars," He divulged as he leaned over and grinned. "I feel like I can connect better with them if they can have a bit of freedom." He smiled fondly at old battle memories. "Familiars are all about personality and taste- though I've been pleasantly surprised by a few that I didn't think would fit."

"Hmm," she moaned sourly. "He'll stick out like a sore thumb, don't you think?" She watched as the beast picked up the pack and handed it to her. She took it and slung it over her shoulder and began to walk, the pair following after.

"Hey, you think you could hand me a vial of sage's secret? It'll really help with my joints," he requested from the teen… only to be hit in the face with the bottle. "Ack," he yelped as the bottle fell on the back of the yeti. He picked it up and looked irritably at her. "What was that for?!"

A wand was thrust towards his face and he leaned back reflexively. "Just so you know, I'm still not entirely on board with this deal. I'm not going to be taking care of a decrepit old man, got it?"

His face relaxed and he threw a cocky smirk. "Hit me. Go ahead and throw your most powerful spell at me! Believe me, I've faced worse!" He grabbed the wand and angled it just over his heart and glared down at her. "I'll even take a fireball to the heart to prove it." When her face softened and withdrew her wand, and looked down he nodded. "I thought so. Just remember who you're calling _decrepit_." He stopped for a moment and a hint of realization crossed his features. "That's a good place to start."

She hummed in response. "What? What's a good place to start?"

"If you're going to be a good thief, do some digging. Make sure you have your facts straight before going off half-cocked. Either that or look like a fool," he lectured, waving a hand as they continued their trek. "If you have all the details it makes for some savvy negotiation tactics. You can really get in their head if you try."

"Isn't there a chance they could fight back," she wondered, adjusting the pack.

"Well, yes," he recalled. "They could call you out on blackmail if you mince your words incorrectly." He looked off into the distance, the heat waves rising off of the sands. "It takes skill and practice."

She thought for a moment and looked over at the beast. "Hey, aren't you being kind of cruel to Squishy riding him out here in the heat," she wondered as she looked at the never melting ice on its head and the panting creature.

He looked down guiltily at the papa sasquash and lightly scratched the back of its head. "I am… but sadly he's the only familiar I have that can carry me." He looked down at his pupil with a sad smile. "I hate doing this to him but I don't think I'd be able to make this journey without him." He petted the creature again which resulted in it shaking with a pleased look on its otherwise constantly irritable face.

Moments of silence passed as he looked out past the hollowed-out sandstone towers formed by many a green buncher's punches as well as the wind he began to notice a shadow looming over him. Before either he or his familiar could react he was picked up by two giant mechanical arms and held in bridal style as another set supported his back. "The hell," he shouted in shock as he looked up into the blue light of the solitary robotic eye.

Squishy stopped dead in its tracks and looked up at the robot with a fierce growl. It cautiously approached the machine as it sniffed. The yeti shook its head and looked back up at it in confusion when it found a familiar scent. It looked at Scrofie and began to whine, confused at what to do.

"Ssh," the teen said as she approached the yeti. "Hey, you can get out the heat some, now." It backed away and turned its head back to Swaine for instruction.

He nodded back. "Come on. It's alright," he agreed. "This thing seems to be under her control, so I'll be fine, boy." It whined again before leaping into the air and returning into the pendant as a ball of light. After, he focused on Scrofie again with an intense scowl. "Don't you ever do that again without asking me, you hear?"

"From what I recall, you're too stubborn to quit," she threw back at him. "So, I just took the chance and saved your pet from heat stroke."

"Or you could have just told me you had a giant robot familiar!" He bobbed his head from side to side. "See? This is what I was talking about, Scrofie. Negotiations need to be thought out. _Actions_ need to be thought out! You probably could have used rejuvenate on your arm!" Avery and his master stopped dead in their tracks. "You didn't even think of that, did you?! This is what separates you from the professionals! You. Don't. Think."

There was a menacing silence that hung overhead. She didn't even turn to say anything. The machine dropped the man and returned to her under her command. She dropped the supply sack turned and marched over to him angrily. "And if I did? It would probably screw my arm up worse! I suck at healing anything and anyone! I've never been good at it- at any support magic!" When he looked up at her from his place on the ground he noticed her disappointed and hurt expression. She stomped and kicked up the sand as she suddenly turned away. "That's what got thrown in the works! I'm such an inept fool I can't even heal myself without making it worse!"

She sighed. "You want to know why I ran away? My parents saw my magic. They thought I could be as great a magician as the great sage of Hamelin." She glanced back at the legendary thief who listened as he slowly lifted himself with his arms. "When I could never master my spells completely, I knew I had failed them." She took out her gun. "But at least I had my love for machines and the stories my uncle gave me…" She turned back with a hint of a smile on her face. "Of you and your adventures."

He managed to get up and brush himself off. He frowned and stared at her. "You weren't listening to those tales correctly, then," he accused. "When I left, I set out to be my own person for the wrong reason. I thought I wasn't good enough for my family- for my country. I let the ideals of others make me believe there wasn't anything I could possibly do." He pursed his lips as he looked at the tiny waves of sand. "I said that I was going to get stronger, but really… I just became a shadow of my former self," Swaine reflected bitterly, closing his eyes for a moment as he shook his head.

He walked up to her somberly. "But then, something changed. The duty fell on Oliver, the pure-hearted one, to save the world and to I to do the same for Hamelin. I didn't let my lack of skills hold me back. Instead, I embraced the skills I knew I had." He put a hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. "You haven't failed anyone, Scrofie! Look at what you've done!" He motioned to her left arm. "Look at that! An arm made of mostly wood, powered by magic! There aren't a lot of people who specialize in that- hell you'd be hard pressed to find them in even Hamelin!" He took her other shoulder and smiled at her. "Embrace your talents, feed them and they'll become your greatest strengths."

She could only stare up at him. At that moment, she recognized him. Her head reared back as the realization sunk in. "Uncle Gascon," she whispered.

"Wha…?" His eyes widened. The fear in his gut, the reality he hoped wasn't true, rose up as he looked at her. He forcibly feigned ignorance. "Who," he questioned her. _Please no_ , the plea rang in his head. _Please don't let this be- What have I done to her…?_ It couldn't be true. He didn't want it to be true. This maimed undernourished girl couldn't be the same niece he swore to look out for like his own child. Through his tales of grandeur, he realized, he had inadvertently caused this abhorrent reality.

"Don't try to play dumb," she snapped, pulling away and glaring at him. "You've known exactly who I was from the start, haven't you?" She pointed at him. "I had my suspicions!" She gasped and turned away as a thought occurred to her. "Of course. It makes sense." She turned back to him. "You were sent by father to fetch me, weren't you?"

"I-," he began, reaching out towards her. "Lynnea," he pleaded. "Try to understand-,"

"I can't believe you! Of course! You'd tell me anything to convince me to go home! I mean _you_?! Swaine?!" She raised her hands above her head and lowered them, slapping her hands against her legs. She turned and stomped away from him only to turn back and face him. "I can't believe I actually fell for it! That I didn't recognize you sooner!"

"Lynnea, I _am_ Swaine," he confirmed as his hand fell. "It's the identity I took after leaving Hamelin, after leaving your father behind!" When she turned away he lowered his head and sighed defeatedly. "I understand… it's a little bit difficult to believe." He looked up with a determined frown. "Look. I was sent to search for you- but not for the reasons you think." She yelped when a pair of arms wrapped around her. "Marcassin misses you… Terribly. He'd hate it if something bad happened to you- we both would," he revealed as he held her tighter. "Please. Just go home- before you lose more than your arm?"

"Why would you care," she snarled back. "You were gone for _five_ years, uncle! Where the flip were you when things started going to hell," she argued as she tried to break away from his hold. "Everyone started to tell me that I should focus more on magic- that I had to start thinking of eventually taking the throne. They had the gall to get angry when I couldn't focus my healing spells and blame it on ineptitude and laziness!" She struggled against his grip but found he only strengthened his resolve to maintain it. "They kept saying that I should only focus on the future destined for me- the future of an empress… a Great Sage!" Finally, she gave up and looked down. "I just want to be me… I believe I can do that if I can become like the legends, even for a moment, I might just be able to make some sort of difference my own way," she said softly as she looked over his arms.

He breathed heavily through his nose and closed his eyes. "You're just copying me, then. You're no good a thief," he breathed. "What _is_ your way? What's unique to you," he asked her, raising a hand and softly petting her head. "I don't give a damn whether you can heal people with magic." He opened his eyes slightly and tilted his head, glancing off to the side. "Do I think it was wrong of your parents to try and force it on you like that? Hell yes." He smirked down at her and loosened his grip. "But you shouldn't try to be Swaine- there will only ever be the one."

"Then what should I be," she wondered, looking up.

"Lynnea. You should be Lynnea: whoever that is, whether she's a princess or a simple engineer. Or both." He finally let go of his niece.

She looked lost but then smirked. "How am I supposed to take that kind of advice from a man with two identities?" She stared down at her shoes and idly shifted her feet in thought. She looked up and showed a proud, wide smile. "For now, until I figure that out, I'll be Scrofie, the legendary master thief's apprentice!" She even gave him a thumbs-up.

As he braced his sides and reared back his head he roared with laughter. "Sure, kiddo," He encouraged afterward, leaning toward her. "But after we get to Al Mamoon and meet Rashaad to send us back to Hamelin, that's the end of it!"

She tilted her head, her energetic expression replaced by bewilderment. "You're escorting me all the way home?"

He crossed his arms and smirked cruelly down at her, though the cruelty was not directed at her, she could tell. "Yeah," he said curtly. "I need to have a little chat with Marcassin to get his side of things. Maybe perhaps see what the hell he's thinking." He sighed and shook his head as his arms fell. "But, honestly, Lynnea, this is my fault. All of it. Every bit."

She blinked as she continued to listen. "What do you mean?"

"I filled your head with so many of my exploits that now you're repeating them." He placed a hand on her right shoulder and looked sincerely into her eyes. "And for that, my darling niece, I am sorry."

"What's there to be sorry for," she shot back. She shrugged and looked out at a distant sand dune. "Things wouldn't be the same. _I_ wouldn't be the same." When he raised an eyebrow at her she rolled her eyes. "You were just trying to be a good uncle," she breathed out as she walked over and picked up the pack. She began to walk off.

"Well, your uncle says you're going the wrong way," he corrected her, jerking his head in the correct direction. She stopped and turned around with a blush and a nervous smile.

"I- I knew that," she lied. "I was just- I was just testing you!" She quickly walked back to him.

He chuckled and raised his right hand halfway with his palm to the sky. "Sure you were," he muttered with an amused shake of the head. Training began: now.


	6. Opposition

He moved to the side as he narrowly dodged a golden claw from her gun. He smirked as he slid to avoid another, taking a bite out of the apple she was supposed to grab out of his hands. He twirled back to the right, chuckling as he chewed.

"Would you hold still," she shouted as she tried another shot. He danced closer with a smirk and another bite, a simple sidestep to avoid it.

"What's wrong, can't hit a moving target," he joked, twirling around her, his faded gold jacket flowing behind him. He reached over her and tapped her nose.

The moment his hand retracted from her view she turned around and shot at him… only for it to miss. "Agh! How the hell _do_ you hit a moving target?"

"I don't know why you're getting so bent out of shape. I thought you were an 'expert' thief," he taunted from behind her.

She growled in frustration at her uncle. She swiveled around and shot again. He stepped to the side and grinned. "C'mon. I'm just a 'decrepit old man'," he teased. "I can't move that well, you know."

She growled and glared up at him. "Is it your mission in life to make me miserable," she complained as she tried to grab the now half-eaten apple from his hands.

"It's my mission in life to make you a better person," he admitted after absentmindedly moving away. "Try something different- your technique is very rough." He watched as she paused to look down at the gun in thought. When she didn't say anything a thought occurred to him. "You've never actually used it." She looked up suddenly and he corrected himself, "I mean, you've tested it, of course, like any good inventor but never used it out here." He motioned to the rest of the desert.

He took a deep breath and reached for his gun. He turned away from her and began to walk. He looked back and jerked his head so she would follow, picking up the sack of provisions. He took another bite from the apple, eventually finishing it when they stumbled across a green buncher. It hopped about but a ripe babana could be seen hidden amongst its bright green growth. "You see that babana there?" She nodded. "Well, here I go. I'm going to get it."

As the creature hopped away, he closed an eye and took aim. He pulled the trigger and the grappling claw grabbed the babana with ease. The babana carrying creature moved further away from them and he smirked at his catch. "Now sometimes, it might not work. But keep trying. The best success, I've found, is waiting until you feel it in your gut. Let your instincts guide you. If you think you can make the shot, that you can get what you need, go for it!" He held his hand out, his palm facing the sand, and moved it slowly and smoothly. He tossed her the babana. "Enjoy," he said with a smile.

She caught it, though she seemed lost in thought. "Do you ever miss, uncle," she wondered as she absentmindedly peeled the babana to eat.

He rolled both his eyes and his shoulders. "Yeah," he admitted, looking down at the gun. "I sometimes do. I'm not perfect." He looked down at his gun and weighed it in his hands. "If I were, we wouldn't be in this desert." He shook the gun up at her. "And I wouldn't have needed to build this."

She smirked over her half-eaten fruit. "I'm glad you're not perfect," she said as they continued to walk. "If you were, you'd probably be the most unbearable person in the world," she prodded, elbowing him.

"Just what are you trying to say," he shot back with a grin.

"Oh nothing…," she countered as she grinned back.

They walked to a flatter part of the desert- they were nearing Al Mamoon. They stopped and began to train again.

Swaine moved around her, holding yet another apple. He often danced out of her way, but her shots seemed more focused. He couldn't help but smile at the improvement his advice had on her.

"Better, but still no apple," he mocked, holding up the red fruit. "Read into your target, the situation," he instructed as he continued to dodge her. "And don't be afraid to take a risk," he imparted as a quick whisper in her ear.

"Why do you keep mocking me," she whined after another unsuccessful shot.

"Because some enemies are smart enough to do so. It's a good diversion tactic," he told as he slid smoothly out of the way.

"Aren't your joints getting sore, old man," she jeered as she nearly missed another shot.

"They've _been_ sore. I've been ignoring them," he returned as he ducked a stray claw. He held up the apple. "Are you going to get this apple or what?"

She stopped and thought for a moment. She watched him move, she recalled his movement when he suddenly dodged. If she could just change the trajectory at the last minute, that apple would be hers. She took aim again at the man so cockily showing off his own flare. She closed an eye and focused on the apple. She had it, she felt it in her gut, she pulled the trigger. She continued to aim as she watched the claw sail towards him. She saw him watch it as well, timing his next move. As he began to dodge yet again, she jerked the gun and the claw jarred towards the same direction he moved.

His eyes widened as he felt the apple leave his grasp. He stared down at the now empty palm and blinked. He slowly began to laugh. "You did it! Good job," he congratulated her. He approached her and smiled. The smile became more mocking in nature. "Now do it again," he said, swiping the fruit out her hand.

Her proud smile fell into an annoyed frown. "What," she shouted. "Again?!"

"Practice, my dear. Practice," he reminded her. "I didn't become a legend without it." He held the apple up again. "Now let's see if you can pull it off again."

They didn't move any further after that. The rest of their day was spent on her training. She found her technique improving, her timing quicker, her reflexes tuning to her newfound skill. Before long, she found herself grabbing the apple with the gun just as quickly as he had backed away with it.

"Let's call it a day," Swaine offered, placing the apple back in her hand instead of having her take it from him. He walked over to the provision bag and sat in front of it, groaning and stretching as he did so. "Ah, my joints," he complained. He watched as she slumped to the floor. "You tired, too?"

"Mentally," she responded as she reached into the bag. "Why do your joints hurt like they do?"

"Who knows," he groaned. "You'd think they'd be fine considering how much I move about but no..."

"Maybe all the battles you've been in triggered something," she theorized as she ate a sandwich.

He smirked sadly down at his own for a moment. "I'm not young, you know." He looked up at her. "I wasn't young in the legend either- when I helped Oliver prevent the world from ending." She paused from eating what was left of her food and looked up at him. "I'm a legend, but I'm still human, Lynnea." He smiled sadly. "I can't stop time." He held out his right arm and winced slightly. "I can't stop nature." He lowered his arm and tilted his head at her. "So I'm going to give it all I've got, whether it's saving the world or passing on my knowledge to you." He looked down, recalling past mistakes and shaking his head. He looked up with a determined glare. "Because I know that I might only have one chance to make the right choice."

"Is that why you don't want me to be a thief," she slowly began to ask. She looked down at her sandwich when he nodded at her. She finished eating her sandwich and got up. She walked over to him and sat next to him. She looked up at the clear night sky, at the many stars there were. "Uncle Gascon," she began, earning a hum in response. She leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. "Can you tell me about you and father as kids?"

"Huh?" He raised an eyebrow as he turned to look down at her. "You used to ask for stories about my adventures," he recalled. "Wouldn't you rather you hear about that?"

She shook her head. "I… Kind of miss home," she admitted softly. She giggled when she realized what she said. "And he never told me stories about you and him." She tried to bury her head in his shoulder to no avail. "And if he did… He did it so boringly! Like he didn't have a storytelling bone in his body!"

Swaine chuckled at his niece. "Now you know who did most of the storytelling and who did most of the reading between the two of us." He nodded at her. "Let's see if I can think of one good enough to tell." A devilish grin appeared on his face. "One that'll embarrass him," he decided in maniacal glee.

She glanced up at him despite the fact that she could only mostly see brown and grey curls. "That's why you're my favorite uncle," she complimented.

"I'm your _only_ uncle," he corrected happily.

"True," she breathed.

He finally found a tale to tell: about a time when he and Marcassin snuck into one of the workshops for parts for a model pig tank. By the time he had reached the exciting part where they were chased out of the workshop, he heard a snore from beside him. He glanced over to see a snoring Lynnea, passed out from exhaustion and the lull of his voice. He smiled fondly and carefully pulled the hood over her head. He carefully wrapped his arms around her and laid her on her right side so sand wouldn't wear down her arm or clog any of the intricate mechanisms she had installed.

He watched as she snored peacefully. He patted her on her right arm. "Sweet dreams, my little porcine princess," he cooed softly before scooting over and laying down, himself. He rested his head on his left arm and quickly fell asleep.

* * *

A former imperial guard turned bounty hunter sat at a bar in a small tavern drinking a mug of beer. He wore a grey turban and a purple sash over his cream robe. His left eye had a scar shaped like stitches from a large gash and an eyepatch over it- the injury that forced him to eventually leave the guard. He overheard a group of men arguing about a chase they recently had.

"We should have looted the body," one of them gruffly said. "We could have gotten back the money she swindled off of us and then some."

"Shut it," the leader hissed, glaring at the black-bearded ruffian. "Do you want a bounty on our heads?"

"I'm just saying, that little brat owed us- er… _owes_ us money," he shot back, leaning over his glass of ale. "We should have done _something_ other than run, don't ya think?"

The bald man slammed the table with the side of his fist, snarling. "She fell off a roof, Earl! If she died, that's blood on our hands!" He scratched his chin and gazed up at the ceiling. "What was it the notice board said in Swift Solutions? Wanted _alive_ for mass thievery?" He tapped his foot under the table as he glared at the bearded man making a fuss. "Even if we _were_ bounty hunters, we wouldn't get the reward, would we?!"

"It's _Emril_ ," the one with a beard corrected him, rolling his eyes.

"Plus we'd be wanted for murder," another man with sideburns and an eyepatch simply said through a mouth of food.

The leader smacked the other one that spoke over the head causing him to choke. "Thank you, Sir Obvious- that's the reason I keep telling you fools to _not_ discuss it! Let it go!" He grabbed his mug and held it up as he was about to drink.

"Er… Gavin? I don't think that's a possibility," another warned as he raised his hand to point at the former guard, now hovering near their table.

"Sorry to intrude, but I couldn't help hear about your run-in with a certain individual," he politely interjected. "Might you be able to show me where she was last seen?"

The leader looked up with wide eyes, still about to take a sip of his drink. He set it down and looked somberly down. "She's dead. Fell off a roof."

"Oh," the guard asked curiously. "Would you show me where, anyway? It might be odd to hear, but she could very well still be alive."

Gavin blinked and tilted his head at him incredulously. "I'm pretty sure she's dead." He nodded and licked his lips as he looked into his cup. He looked back up at the guard. "Yeah. A fall like that could kill _me_. She's dead, sir. And for the record, _we_ didn't push her off. She fell."

The guard leaned over and placed both hands down on the table as he eyed each and every one of the men. "But you chased her to her death. Your cohort admitted it. Wouldn't you feel more at ease knowing you didn't kill her?" He smirked devilishly down at the group. They all collectively swallowed at his reasoning and exchanged nervous glances. "If she is alive, I'm even willing to cut a deal with you. If we find her I'll split the bounty." He scoffed as they all turned to look at him. "If she isn't… I hope she is for your sake," he venomously warned. He straightened up and turned to leave.

"Wait… We'll-," the leader began with his head lowered. "We'll help you find her."

"Gavin-," Emril began to argue. He silenced himself when Gavin glared at him.

The guard nodded and smiled. "Good to do business with you. The name is Amos."

They lead Amos to the building they had scrambled up. They followed the direction of her path and found the alleyway she fell into. The guard walked up to it and looked around. "The body either was moved or she lived." He looked over at them. "How did she fall?"

"Huh? You're expecting me to remember that," Gavin exclaimed. "Er… I think she kind of tripped but maybe at an angle… I think."

"It was definitely at an angle," the shorter bearded man next to him confirmed. They watched as their new mysterious companion looked up at the adjacent building. "Is that important?"

"Aye, it is," he answered as he looked down at the small pile of rubble in front of him. "She's still alive with a severely broken arm. She's probably left this city by now." He glanced at them and for once smiled warmly. "Looks like you're not murderers," he said coldly as he walked out of the alleyway.

"How do you know," Gavin asked as he watched Amos walk past him.

"I used to be a guard. I know a fugitive act when I see one," he stated with his hands on his hips. He turned to the side to look at the group with a cocky smile. "We'll start searching the outskirts of the town. See if we can find this 'Mecha-Master'. As they say," he instructed with a nod.

They followed their new leader out to the edge of town and searched its perimeter. They came across a hut near the tiny oasis that barely provided the life-sustaining water for the citizens. The door was missing from the already ramshackle building. With a raised eyebrow the turban bound man led them in.

In the center of it was a pile of ash where a small fire had been on the stone floor. Next to it was a crumpled note. To the back, the wall stained with blood splatter and in front a stain where a pool of the same blood had collected. That was the first thing Amos noticed as he investigated the scene. He approached it and examined it closely. "Something happened here," he stated as he ran his hand over the stain. He sniffed it and cringed at the smell. "This was a week ago. Or more." He looked up at the men. "When did you chase the girl?"

"About ten days ago," Gavin stated, rubbing his bald head. He looked at the stains and back at Amos. "You don't think…," he began, his eyes wide.

The guard looked at the sheet on the ground. It outlined blueprints of a mechanical arm. "The target is called what she is because she's from the machine capitol of the world." He placed a hand to his chin and looked down. "She has the where-with-all to build not only a pickpocketing gun but also command a giant robot. Many call her the want-a-be master-thief for those reasons." He hummed in thought as he stared at the blueprints. "Now, if I were to fall from a height of say a four-story building, willingly and still live to tell it, I'd fall so my arm would take the brunt of the impact. My arm would be broken beyond repair, but I could manage if it wasn't my dominant arm." He smirked at the plans and looked around at the holes in the sides of the roof and the ruined spackle on the walls. "This would be the last place I'd look for me. Now, I'm no inventor, but I think she might have had her robot help craft the arm. It's her familiar, it'll do what she commands."

One of the men picked up the note and looked at it. "Hey, Mister Amos, sir? I don't suppose the robot could write." The thin balding man walked up to Amos and handed him the note.

As he read he sighed exasperatedly and then threw his arm down at his side, dropping the note. "She has help. She managed to endear herself to someone to help protect her as they move." He frowned as he looked down at the disposed note. "We may have to kill them to get to her."

"What," Gavin shouted as he looked at the former guard. "I don't want that!" He shook his head. "No. No! There will be no killing if I have any say-," he began.

"Says the man who led his posse up a building and chased a girl to her possible death," Amos returned vehemently. "If it comes down to it, I'll be the one who stops this person, whoever they may be."

"And if its someone important, like one of the Sages or the heroes from the legend," Emril warned cautiously, tilting his head warily at the former guard. "We don't want to be dragged under if you kill someone like that. What do you plan to do if it is?"

Amos crossed his arms and scoffed. "They're protecting a fugitive. Legend or no, they have no immunity." He stared coldly at the door past the gang of newly made bounty hunters. "Even kings have rules to follow- we are all bound by laws."


	7. Teacher

When they arrived at Al Mamoon- or the oasis of it- it was midday. They decided to practice more before entering the city for the safety of the citizens. Instead of practicing guns, his pupil had decided on magic practice.

"Why magic all of a sudden," Swaine wondered as she picked up a stick and drew runes.

"I figured if I'm going back soon, I might as well practice," she grunted as she drew another healing rune with the stick. She smirked at him. He sat on a log, writing something in a notebook. "What are you writing?"

"Well… I figured you wouldn't want to stop practicing with that gun of yours after. Plus you won't have much practice in town." He smiled down at the book. "I figured you'd want a list of formulae of all the trick pellets I use." He wagged the charcoal pencil back at her cautiously. "Just don't use these on people or innocent animals, you hear?"

Her eyes lit up as she looked at him. She gasped happily. "You mean it? You really will?" When he nodded, she gave a fist pump, gripping the stick. "I promise to use them with care." She went back to mock casting spells.

"I'm trusting you, Lynnea," he stated somberly. She stopped again and looked at him. He had stopped writing to watch her. "These shots, some of them have taken me years to perfect." He lowered his head and bobbed it up and down in consideration. He looked back and hesitantly gripped the book. "I don't feel like this technology should be blindly given away. Either it dies with me or I pass it on to someone who I trust it with."

"Why not my father," she indicated as she drew another rune in the air. "You two were always so close."

He looked down as he remembered the giant hog tank he and his comrades had fought twenty-three years ago. He recalled one of the guards- Hogarth, his name was- having one of his unfinished plans.

 _"I told you, he was just doing a favor,"_ he recalled his brother telling him when he had poked at the situation. He recalled being furious with him for attempting to copy his gun- no one should have it. It was a forbidden tool in his eyes- a tool only worthy of him. Then there was her: Lynnea. She never saw the plans. She just heard how it worked and managed to build one very similar to his original design.

 _"I asked him to have the engineering division finish the design and- if they could- build the gun as a victory present upon your return, brother,"_ he had revealed to the then angered older brother. He remembered feeling really crappy about it at that moment. He had explained how dangerous it was to create such a weapon- how he didn't want it mass produced. If there weren't any others there couldn't be any copycat thieves. That he had especially made clear to his little brother. He looked up at the still practicing Lynnea. "How'd you know how to build it- the pickpocketing gun," he wondered.

"Hmm? My gun? Well, it was really simple. I took the designs for a regular pellet gun then I pieced together what you said your gun could do." She tilted her head in thought and pursed her lips. She breathed out heavily. "Before I knew it I was taking scrapped parts of pistols and making a spring-loaded claw." She looked over at him with a slightly disappointed look. "Sadly, the first couple of models were utter failures. They broke on the first test." She smirked as she looked down at her large pocket. "The gun I have is the first working model of my original design."

 _"Don't you dare let the engineering division copy it,"_ he recalled his younger self-ordering the then twenty-four-year-old. He remembered his brother looking him the eye, sniffing out the lack of trust in his older sibling. _"You don't trust me, do you,"_ he asked him. _"Why in the world would I do something like that? I gave Hogarth express orders to have them burn any rough drafts when they were through with the final one."_ He bit his lip and licked it afterward in thought at the memory. He remembered Marcassin smiling at him ever so slightly. _"It's_ your _invention- unique to only you. It's only been modified, that's all."_ He took out the Cad's Cannon and looked down at it as he thought of its predecessor. _"It is what I recognize you by now, brother. For that reason, I shall not fail your trust."_

She laughed and continued to practice her spells, her notebook open on the ground. "That's not right," she heard him say. She turned her head to look at him again. She was taken aback by what she saw, a tear running down his left eye. "You alright?"

He reared his head back in confusion. He blinked for a moment and sniffed. He wiped his face with his coat. He nodded with a sad smile. "Just old memories." He frowned as she drew the rune again. "But your spell. You're doing it wrong."

"Huh…? No," she started. "I'm doing it right. This is it." She looked down at the book then back at him. "This is how it's drawn."

He snapped the book shut. "It isn't." He got up and walked over to her and they both stood in front of the lake formed by the spring. He held his hand out for the stick. To his surprise, she handed him her actual wand. "Er… I asked for your stick."

She glanced up pointedly with her eyes. "You have no magic. It might as well be a stick," she responded.

He shrugged his shoulders and smirked. "Cheeky little thief," he teased as he weighed the wand in his hand. "You're looking at the man who taught your father most of his old magic tricks!" He raised it and began to draw the rune. "I know a thing or two, you know." It appeared to them, glowing. "See this," he began, pointing at the final line in the symbol. "It's in the wrong place: it can't be Healing Touch." He erased it by swiping the wand through the drawing.

"You can cast spells," she exclaimed. "I thought-"

He tilted his head and tapped his foot as he glared at her with crossed arms. "I can only muster enough energy to draw the rune. There isn't enough there to cast." He let his hands fall and flop to his sides. "Given what you've told me, there's a chance that even with the correct symbol, it won't work."

"I know," she began. "But I have to try."

"Good." He looked back at the book and bent over to pick it up. "Have you used this before," he wondered as he gestured to it.

"It made my arm mush," she replied with a wince. She instinctively held her left arm as she looked at the symbol.

He took out his pencil and crossed out the word "Healing" and wrote another word above it: "Malignant". He looked over at her with a proud grin. "Congratulations… You've invented a new spell."

"I- I did," she chirped as she looked at the book.

He nodded back at her and flipped to a blank page. He drew a new rune, similar to that of what used to be Healing touch. He tapped it with the rear of the pencil. " _This_ ," he started to correct, "Is Healing Touch." He put the book down and put his pencil up. He took the wand again and drew it in the air to show her. He drew the other symbol, malignant touch, as a comparison. He turned to her with both eyebrows raised. "See," he said as he waved towards the spells. "Entirely different."

She observed them, analyzed them. She nodded when the symbols faded, the energy spent. She gasped in horror when she saw him cutting his palm with a small knife. "What are you doing," she shouted.

"Giving you something to practice Healing Touch on," he said as he dropped the blade. He winced as the hot air came in contact with the wound. He threw her wand back at her. "If it doesn't work, don't worry. I've got plenty of healing potions." He tilted his head confidently.

"You-," she started, pointing at him with her wand. "-Are a crazy old man!" She paced and shook her head.

"Yeah, yeah. Could you hurry? I'm getting blood everywhere," he said through gritted teeth.

"Who's fault is that," she threw at him. She shook her head again and took her wand up and drew the symbol. She flung it down to cast the spell. The wound didn't heal. He was still bleeding. "Oh flip, oh hell. Dammit, what do I do," she began to panic, gripping her hair.

"Calm down. Healing potions- they're in the bag," he said calmly despite his injury, raising his left hand in front of him.

She ran to the bag and dug through it, pulling out a vial of sage's secret. She ran back and handed it to him. As he poured the purple liquid down his throat the wound began to heal and the bleeding stopped. They both breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Please. Don't do that again," she requested fretfully. He looked away from her. "I'm serious, Uncle Gascon. What if you were mortally wounded? I can't heal you with magic!" She looked down at her hands. "I can't do it," she whispered. "I can't be of any use."

He looked back at her, his expression stern as he considered his next words. He patted her shoulder with his left hand as his look softened. "It's alright if you can't cast healing spells. It won't make you any less of a person, Lynnea." He smiled at her as he rubbed the area where the wound had been. "Esther, you know, the girl with the harp? She can't cast spells without it."

"If only my father could understand that," she sighed as she looked away. She looked back at him when she heard him chuckle.

"You think he'd entrust me with the role of ambassador if he didn't? I can't even cast form familiar!" He placed his hands on his hips and looked down at her. "I know my brother- if there's anything he has always been, it's understanding." He looked down and sighed. "He loves you, you know."

"But I-," she looked at her hands again. "I couldn't meet his expectations."

He shook his head. "You don't need to prove yourself to him! To anyone! How many times do I have to say it," he reamed her. "Do you know what he said he wanted for you the day you were born?" He glared down at her. "He said that he wanted you to be great- just that. If you couldn't be a sage, whatever skills you had- he hoped you'd be great at your craft!" He crossed his arms. "He accepted you the way you were the day you were born. Hell, probably before that!"

He turned away and looked out at the lake glistening in the light of the setting sun. "You should have seen his face. He was so happy that day," he reflected. "He was so worried about you- what you'd be." He let an amused smirk cross his features briefly and a small laugh escape him. He glanced over his shoulder at her. "He even hoped you'd be like me in a way. Isn't that ironic?" He looked down and shook his head with his hands on his hips once more. He turned back to her. "You've met every expectation of his in your power. Now it's time to meet your own."

She could only nod back in silence as she let his words sink in. She had no clue what her own goals really were. She'd find them one day.

He raised a hand and grabbed her right shoulder as he beamed at her. "I know you'll figure it out. You're a smart kid." He let go and jerked his head towards the bag. "Now how about we set up camp and head into town tomorrow. We can even have a campfire."

She brought out Avery and grinned eagerly. "Consider it done!"

* * *

She awoke to the sound of splashing and growling. She lifted her head but kept her hood up. She stood, looking for her uncle. She raised a thin eyebrow at the pile of clothes where he had been sleeping the night before. Thankfully, the only thing that seemed to be missing from the pile was his pants.

She walked over to the lake and smirked at the sight. She found her missing mentor playing in the water with a familiar giant fluffy creature.

"Squishy- ack," he playfully protested as the yeti splashed him. It grunted in response and continued to splash its master. "Would you cut it out," he demanded despite his incorrigible grin.

"You're having fun," she observed from the edge. She crouched to watch the scene. His usually fluffy hair had drooped down with water, though it seemed to resist it greatly. Surprisingly, her uncle had little chest hair for a man of his age.

He raised an eyebrow at her with a frown, though she could still see a hint of a smile. "You know it's considered rude- even vulgar- in some cultures for a woman to watch a man bathe," he quipped.

She narrowed her eyes as he splashed back at his familiar. "That doesn't look like bathing."

"Oh shut up," he playfully bit back. He trod the water as he glanced to the side. He blinked and focused on her when he saw her taking her jacket off as well as her leggings. "What are you doing?"

"Joining you two," she answered.

With a sinister smile, he sunk lower so his eyes were only above the water. He slowly but surely inched closer towards his niece. When she almost had her prosthetic arm off he reached up and grabbed her right arm and yanked hard.

"Aaah," she screamed, the fake limb falling off of her. She began to panic when she hit the water, desperately treading as she regained her footing. She spun around to face the now snickering Swaine. "What the hell?" She looked him over. "Are you bloody well insane?! I could have drowned!"

"No, you wouldn't have. That's why I'm here," he let on, grinning cheekily at her. He pushed a wave of water at her and she held up her arm in defense. Squishy bounded up, spraying water on both of them as its paws hit the surface. "Agh! Stop it, boy!"

She laughed and threw water back at his pet… who only slapped the water with its front paws, spraying it all over her. It nuzzled her right arm affectionately. She raised it to pet its head. Suddenly, she was doused with water from behind.

"Good work, Squish'," he praised as he backed away hurriedly.

She turned around with a menacing smile. "You gotta death wish, uncle?" His eyes widened in fear despite his smirk. He bolted away from her, taking advantage of still having all of his limbs. He feared that wouldn't be the case if she caught him. She gave chase and used her right arm to compensate.

"Run! Run, I tell you," he squealed as he swam. "Squishy! Distract her!" He looked back and saw his vengeful niece right behind him. "Why the flipping hell are you so quick," he shouted. "You only have one arm!"

"Why are you? You're just an old man," she shot back at him. She batted her eyes when she realized the sudden lack of light over the water. _"SPLASH!"_ She found herself being cradled by a giant, usually angry looking yeti and being licked. She glared at her now snickering uncle who still treaded away from her.

"Aw, he likes you," he joked. He drew near his pet and his adopted daughter. "Can't catch me now! Squishy's got you pinned," he gloated. He was treated to a splash of water in his face. He squinted his eyes and stuck out his tongue. "Peh," he spat, shaking his head. She scooped up water and trickled it over his head. He stared at her as he wiped his thoroughly soaked hair from his face. "…Why?"

She grinned then broke into a fit of laughter. "Cause it's fun!" She continued to giggle. "Don't suck the fun out of things!"

"I am not," he argued. He used both hands to push a wave of water at her. Both she and Squishy winced.

She shook her head sassily as she stuck her tongue out at him. She raised her arm to shield herself when he sent another splash. She looked up at the Yeti. "You just going to let him treat you like that, Squish'?" It blinked and huffed then looked at its owner.

He saw the look in its eyes and widened his own. He began to back away. "No. No, don't you dare, boy!" When the creature backed away and shook its backside, he began to swim for it. "Ooooh, hell!" It leaped into the air and held the girl tighter with its free arm. When it hit the water, the liquid sprayed everywhere, the waves forcing Swaine closer to the shore. He stood and grabbed his hair to ring it out. "Ooookay," he began. "I'd say that's enough swimming for one morning, eh?" He shook his head and his shoulder-length hair clung to his back as it slowly regained its natural curl. He turned and left the water.

Squishy and Lynnea followed suit, the beast shaking of its fur as soon as it left the water. It carefully set the girl down and she picked up her clothes disappointedly. "Aw. They're damp."

"You'll be in the sun in just a second. No need to worry about that," he stated as he put his on. He whistled and held up the pendant to his familiar. "Time to come back." It leaped up and turned back into a green ball of light.

"Hey…," she began as she put back on her arm, her leggings and shoes already on. "You said you saw my father when I was born. That means you were there."

He paused from straightening up his belt. "Er… Yeah. I had a hand in bringing you into the world, actually." He smiled fondly at the memory. He grabbed his coat and began to throw it on. It was hard to believe she was ever that small, now. She'd grown into quite the pretty young woman despite the misfortune of her left arm.

"You know… you're kind of like a second father to me," she admitted quietly. She turned and smiled at him. "I suppose that explains it, then."

He hummed thoughtfully as he shook his hair again. "Yeah." He grabbed the sack of provisions and walked up to her. He stared into her eyes. "Lynnea. Listen… I promised your mother before you were born to do anything that I could for you." He smirked. "I haven't failed that promise yet. I'll see it through for as long as I can."

"That's- that's your way, isn't it," she remembered. He nodded, smiling sadly again at old memories. "I think I'll adopt that way, too."

He looked down at her in slight shock. "Will you, now?"

She gave a determined nod. "Once I figure out what I'm going to do when I get back, I'm going to do it! I'll see it through!" She grinned up at him. "I'll make you proud, uncle!"

He smiled gently at his niece and patted her on the shoulder. He let go and began to walk towards the desert. She followed suit and they were on their way to Al Mamoon.

 _I already am…_


	8. Loss

As they approached the entrance, the older rogue suddenly stopped. Guards were present out front. They'd probably be looking for her. As she obliviously continued to walk forward, he grabbed the hood of her coat to stop her. "Hey," he warned in a hushed whisper. When she turned and looked up at him in confusion, he nodded at the guards and focused on her again. "Put your hood up."

"Wha…?" She glanced over her shoulder and noticed the guards. "Oh." She threw her hood up over her head and looked up for confirmation.

He nodded subtly with a neutral expression in an effort of averting attention. "Just stay calm. Don't do anything outlandish," he softly advised her. He walked around her. When she didn't follow, he tilted his head back and smirked as he coolly suggested, "And keep moving. You stand out more if you just stand in the way."

They walked together, almost side by side. As they got closer to the entrance, he threw his right arm over her shoulders and pulled her to his side with a wide grin, a giggle sounding behind it. "Keep your head low," he quickly and quietly instructed.

As they walked through, she could feel the eyes of the guards on them. She began to wonder if he knew what he was doing- wouldn't this draw _more_ attention to them?

"Are you two from Hamelin," the guard to the right of them asked.

"Oh, yeah! Just passing through," Swaine answered as he maintained his cheerful cover. "We decided to check out the capital of the Summerlands!"

The guard eyed his niece warily. "Keeping the sun off of you," he pondered curiously.

She nodded quietly. "My skin's sensitive so I have to cover up a lot," she lied as she crossed her arms nervously- though, the guard read it as self-conscious behavior.

The guard nodded and looked over at her uncle. "Be careful. Thieves have been rampant lately," he informed them, motioning for them to pass through.

As they walked down the street, she looked around slowly but carefully. The place was bustling with vendors of various wares unique to the area. They stopped at a babana stall to find no one managing it.

"Hmm…," he grunted as he stared at the empty chair, setting the bag down next to him. "Now where the in the blazes is he," he whispered thoughtfully. He tilted his head at the sight with a hand to his chin as if trying to solve a mystery.

"Swaine," a woman around thirty shouted from up the street. She had a blond braid folded in half and tied to the top. To lengths of hair wrapped around her ears and down her back into a smaller braid. She waved as she began to run up to them excitedly, her simple purple top and skirt over a pair of puffy cream pants pressing against her as she ran

"What- Esther," he questioned as he squinted at the smiling lady. He was tackled as she embraced him. He quickly wrapped his arms around her back and swiveled around to compensate for the sudden weight and force. He laughed when they stopped and put each other at a distance. "It's been quite a while, Esther!"

"You're telling me," she jabbed as she recalled the last time she saw him. It had been a couple of years- he had been passing through the Golden Grove to Ding Dong Dell and had stopped in to say, "Hello." She recalled most of their conversation consisting of catching up with each other and eventually getting into a petty argument as usual. "You've got business then," she wondered with a tilt of her head.

He crossed his arms with a sudden adamant and aloof look. "None of your's," he shot back. "Don't you have a familiar farm to tend to?" He held a hand out pointedly.

She swayed back and forth as she put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. "I would… if I weren't visiting my father." She looked over and noticed the girl. "Who's this?"

"Er… I'm-," she started to introduce herself.

He placed a gentle hand on top of the teenager's head, cutting her off. "Scrofie. My pupil," he quickly interjected.

"Pupil, huh," she repeated, analyzing the youth as she leaned toward her. "No fair," she pouted. "How does a lazy old thief get a pupil?"

"Lazy. Feh! Lazy isn't crossing a desert over and over again delivering messages and handling negotiations! It's hard work keeping the world at peace!" He shook his head and crossed his arms again as he tapped his foot impatiently. "Where is the Great Sage, anyhow? He's not in his stand."

As if on cue, the sage walked through the curtain, using his staff as a cane. He smiled when he saw the ambassador visiting his humble shop. "Ah, so the legendary thief makes an appearance." His eyes narrowed in mock suspicion as he smirked at the lanky man. "What brings you to my shop? Not here to steal anything, are you?"

Swaine laughed jovially with a hand on his hip and the other at his side. He leaned forward with a cheeky grin. "None of that, no. I'm actually here for a favor." He placed his right hand on Scrofie's back and guided her forward. "I'm in need of Travel," he requested. "I'm taking this one home."

Rashaad leaned forward and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. He looked down at her left hand and noticed the wood. "You remind me of one of the twelve tales of wonder." He gestured to her arm. "May I see," he asked her.

She didn't know what to do. What would happen if she showed him? She looked down for a moment in consideration. At a loss and extremely nervous, she looked at her uncle for support.

"It's alright, Scrofie. You can trust him," he encouraged kindly.

The sage hummed in response to her behavior. He looked back to Swaine. "Perhaps it would be best to look at this inside," he wisely suggested.

The familiar tamer patted the girl's back, causing her to look up through her hood. "Would that be more comfortable, dear," she concernedly asked her.

"Uh… yeah. I think it would," she nervously responded. She hadn't realized it before, but she had been gripping the edges of her coat. She was shutting down socially- the sheer fame of the people surrounding her overwhelming her train of thought. Sure, there was Swaine, but he was also her uncle- she was used to him. He had nursed her back to health. Her father was an emperor, though his title didn't claim it- that had been a normal part of her life.

But now she was in front of two people she'd never thought she'd meet in person: the legendary harpist and the Great Sage of Al Mamoon. It was a little hard to tell what would be appropriate in this circumstance.

She felt someone nudge her and she looked up. "Hey," her uncle began. He had picked the bag back up. "You okay? We're heading into Rashaad's." He glanced back at the shop and then back at her. She had gone awfully quiet during the conversation.

She gulped and nodded. "Yeah. Sorry. It's kind of nerve-wracking. I never thought I'd ever talk to two other legends." She heard an incredulous chuckle and glared up. "What?"

"You certainly didn't have any issue when _I_ showed up," he prodded as she began to walk towards the back of the shop.

She spun around on her heal. "That's because I didn't believe you!" She turned back and entered the lavender curtain and followed the stairs up to their home. "Even more so, you're my uncle. Kind of hard to be awestruck by someone you've known for most of your life."

He snorted in response and rolled his eyes. For a moment, he considered playing down her statement smugly; he would have said that in his day there wasn't time to be nervous around legends, that there were more pressing matters. He almost shook his head at the thought, realizing how old it would make him sound. Instead, he quietly took in what was Esther's childhood home as he set the lighter supply bag against a wall.

The building was made out of the sturdy material of limestone, sand, and mud, so the walls, when they weren't decorated with a portrait or a beautiful rug took on a creamy color. The area they entered was the living area. The kitchen could be entered by turning right immediately at the front door. To the left were the family bedrooms, they both assumed. Against the left wall of the living area was a pink couch to which Scrofie decided to sit.

"Quite a nice place. Real quaint," Swaine observed as Rashaad approached the teen.

The sage made no comment as he instructed the young thief to reveal her arm. He gasped when he saw it. "I knew I sensed some sort of magic item," he said excitedly as he leaned forward to study it. His eyes fell on where it was joined and his curious smile fell. "I see. You had to make a replacement." He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. "It must have been painful but I'm certain it had to be done." He looked over to her mentor. "What was that Hamelin saying again?"

"Necessity is the mother of invention," Swaine reminded him as he leaned against a wall with his arms crossed. "She can cast spells with it, too. She's pretty good for someone who's never created a fake arm before."

"Ha! Not like I had much room for error," she jovially jabbed.

"But… to make an arm like that," Esther started as she looked at it. Scrofie raised it and flexed various fingers, turning the wrist as it were her own. "Takes some serious magical and mechanical talent!" She stared at it, fascinated.

Scrofie laughed nervously as she rubbed the back of her now uncovered head. "Thanks," she sheepishly replied.

"Ahem," the ambassador cleared his throat. "Aren't we getting a little sidetracked?"

Rashaad nodded. "Yes. Travel," he stated as he leaned back. He took a quizzical look at Scrofie. "You cannot cast it?"

She shrugged. "Never learned how," she answered.

Rashaad growled in thought as he looked between them. He walked up to Swaine with a concerned and serious expression. "You are aware that she's wanted by the state, correct," he whispered harshly as he stared the older thief down. "What is your true motive, here, Swaine? Tell me, what is it that's _really_ going on?"

The ambassador turned his head to avoid the sage's gaze. He frowned as he considered his choices: Rashaad was, regardless of title, an honorable man, the father of his comrade, and someone he considered trustworthy; he was also honor bound to the throne, an agent of Al Mamoon's protection- he would be within his right to report them. At the same time, however, aiding her return would mean she would no longer cause trouble.

He turned to meet the sage's gaze. "Can you keep a secret, sir," he questioned quietly as he gripped his arms tighter.

Rashaad shifted uncomfortably and glanced down. He hadn't really gotten to know the thief that well, but considering his status, it would be similar to denying confidence in a fellow sage. He looked back up and nodded.

Swaine's body language shifted: he let his arms fall to his side and leaned forward. "She's Marcassin's daughter. My _niece_. I swore to make sure she returns home alive."

"And why do you choose to keep this a secret," the sage questioned.

"Well, it doesn't look too good, now does it," he snapped as he leaned back suddenly. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms as he glanced down at the floor. "It would be a political nightmare and I'm sure my brother doesn't need that." He raised an eyebrow at the older man. "Funny thing, I don't believe I've ever told you that I and Marcassin were brothers."

Rashaad sighed and leaned on his staff. He nodded, accepting the explanation. "I see your point. I understand." He looked back at the girls eagerly chatting. "I will help you." He chuckled, finally addressing his last statement. "You two talked a lot on the Iron Wyvern. I assumed that was the case. I believe at one time he did call you 'brother'."

The older thief gave a short nod. "Yeah, that would do it," he wagered with a sigh as he looked up for a moment. He turned and began to walk to the entrance of their home.

"Don't you need Travel?" Rashaad held his hand out in confusion.

Quick as ever, Swaine turned around and grinned. "I have previous business with the Cowlipha," he informed him. He glanced over at Scrofie. "Hey, kid," he shouted. When she looked up he waved at her. "I have to do something. Try and sit tight!"

She stood suddenly in confusion. "Where are you going?"

"Ambassador stuff. Grown-up stuff- stuff you needn't worry your little head over quite yet. Just stay put. We'll leave as soon as I return, alright?" He froze for a moment and dug into his internal pockets on his coat. "Oh, yeah. That's right." He smirked knowingly as he walked up to the teen. "You should probably have this for your studies. I've finally finished it." He handed the book to her. She took it, looked down at it, and thanked him. She looked back up and returned the smile. With that, he turned around and exited the building.

Scrofie sat back down on the couch. She had a slight lump in her throat. She watched as Rashaad followed her uncle out to the front of his shop. Alone again in a strange place. After traveling with someone… it felt alien to her to be among people she hardly knew. She fought the urge to get up and run after him… Why did it feel like the last time she'd see that smirk on his face?

Esther leaned to the side and looked at her. The teen had gone pale. "You alright," she asked her when she saw the panic in her eyes.

She swallowed and slowly nodded. Her eyes darted over to focus on Esther. "I'm- yeah." She laughed nervously. "Over the last week, I've kind of gotten used to him just being there. Now he's left, I kind of feel a little more vulnerable."

"How long have you been on your own," Esther pried. She bit the inside of her lip and looked away. If she was anything like Swaine, she would probably try to keep a tight lid on personal questions like that. She stayed quiet, deciding to let her answer if she did.

Scrofie sighed deeply and looked down at the book in her hands. "Two years." The songstress looked up suddenly at her answer. "I've been alone for two years. At first, I stole because I wanted to be like Swaine… then I realized: I had to steal to survive." She idly rubbed the surface of the burgundy cover. "Now that I've met him and he's taken me under his wing, I kind of don't want to go back to living like that."

"So… You're a thief? Why," Esther asked quietly as they sat on the couch.

"I thought…," she began. She had become so unsure of her goals since she had run back into her uncle. "I thought I could be like the legends- like Swaine." She kicked the edge with her feet. She gave a nervous chuckle. "Now I'm not so sure."

The blond looked down in thought for a moment. "We kind of… didn't decide to become legends. We were just thrown into it." She smirked as she looked down. "In hindsight, I guess I went to keep my home safe and so my family wouldn't live in terror of the Dark Djinn." She glanced up at the other wall pensively. "Swaine… He… Well, he originally just wanted to help his brother. But then…" She breathed heavily as the memory of a jarring scene played out again in her mind. "Then it became more than that. He never said anything but we all kind of knew why he continued to follow us."

"Why? What happened," she wondered. She saw Esther's face tense up.

"He saw his father die. We were flung fifteen years in the past. He was murdered by Shadar," she said hollowly. "It was about revenge. If he ever did say anything about it… He masked it as doing the world a favor- keeping other people from suffering." She looked down at the rug covered floor in front of them and sighed. "Maybe there's some truth to that, I don't know." She looked up and smiled and patted her guest's back. "Just… Do what you think is right!"

Scrofie wrung her hands. She didn't know what was right… She absentmindedly rubbed the wooden joints of her wooden hand. She opened the book her uncle had given her a moment before. She smirked sadly at the neat cursive handwriting of a former prince. She leafed through its contents. Some were blueprints, others were concise descriptions of a gun. Others were recipes for ammunition. When she flipped passed the guns, she reached to a rather shocking schematic- a metal mechanical arm. It detailed the pieces she needed, the gears, the parts, and a weaponized hand attachment. "Wood will wear down easily after extraneous use," a note in the upper right corner read. "For Lynnea," a note on the same side in the lower corner prescribed.

"I… don't want to be a thief anymore," she said as she ran her right hand over the page. She swallowed hard. "I think I want to carry on my uncle's legacy." She looked over at Esther. "He's an inventor from Hamelin. You'd probably know him." She tilted her head and smiled. "His name is Gascon."

The familiar tamer's mouth hung open. She raised her hand to point at her. "You're-," she began. The rogue next to her nodded. She smiled pleasantly at the teen. "I'm sure you'll be a great inventor, then."

In the main street of Al Mamoon, a bigger quarrel was being had. "We are looking for this girl," a turban bound man wearing an eyepatch asked Rashaad as he held up a wanted poster. "I don't suppose you've seen her, Rashaad?"

The sage shook his head as he sat in front of his babana stall. "If I had I would tell you," he fibbed, waving a hand to the street. He looked up at them simply.

Amos looked down at Rashaad curiously, analytically. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "You're lying." He showed him the poster again, Scrofie's face plastered on the page. "You know, so tell me," he venomously hissed. "Or I shall storm your house for her."

"I- I don't think that's really necessary-," Gavin began. He leaned back when he received a menacing glare. He stood firm for once. "He's probably telling the truth. We shouldn't do such a thing, especially to a Great Sage."

Amos hummed thoughtfully. "And if he isn't then we lose our bounty and a wanted criminal continues to go free." He looked back at Rashaad. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

The sage adamantly stood as he braced his staff, his own age getting to him. "You shall not enter my home. You have no valid reason to!"

"Do you have something to hide Rashaad? Something your protecting," he sickly cooed, grinning as he leaned closer to the babana merchant and tilted his head.

"A man cannot protect his own home from fools like you, Amos," he bit back. "Of course I have something to protect, as it is my nature of being a sage! It is my home and my family I seek to protect from you," he explained harshly as he stamped his staff into the ground.

Scrofie stood up when she heard Rashaad shout. She ran to the window and looked out. She backed away when she saw the same group of men that had cost her her arm.

"Scrofie," Esther called concernedly from the couch. "Are you alright?"

"I- I have to go. They've found me! I need to leave," she said hurriedly, walking over to another window and peering out. She turned and nodded at the now confused harpist. "Thank you, Esther. For everything." She smiled sweetly and slid out the window.

Esther, now confused ran to it and watched as she climbed down and began to run down the streets.

"No, stop," Rashaad called out as the men burst past him and ran up the stairs and into his home. The harpist turned from the window and saw them. Her eyes widened at the sight. _What- what have you gotten into, Scrofie?_ She wondered as her mouth hung open. Her father came up, his face seething with anger. "You have no respect, Amos! Reckless and foolish! You never learned, even after you lost an eye!"

Amos's face went red and turned to the Great Sage. "Shut up and tell me where to find her!"

Rashaad only shook his head. "Why do you insist that I know anything about this mysterious girl," he returned, glaring at the guard.

Amos's flushed face slowly cooled off as he looked back at Esther. She had been peering out the window. "She's in the back alleys." He turned to the men and motioned them to follow. "Come on, men." He glared back at the sage as he left.

As they ran out of the home, they passed a returning Swaine. They caught his attention and he gave a worried stare at the babana shop. He rushed up to the flat and looked at Esther and Rashaad. "Scrofie- what happened," he interrogated frantically.

"They've found her. Hurry," the older sage said, motioning to the window.

Swaine nodded and bolted towards it. He managed to fling himself towards an adjacent building and run across the roof. He followed the gang of thugs. He didn't dare stop to fire. If he did, he stood the chance of losing them- of losing her. He wasn't about to let that happen.

She ran, ran again away from the same men she had been running from before. She randomly slid into other alleys to give them the slip but to no avail. She finally found herself in a dead end and turned back to face them. She drew her gun. It was either stand and fight or be captured and face whatever cruel punishment the state had for her.

The older thief's body trembled in fear as he realized her situation. _No. No, don't you dare._ He felt panicked breaths escape his mouth as he began to climb down the side of the building.

Seeing her retaliation, Amos drew his cutlass and ran towards her. She fired and he swiped the sword down, knocking the bullets away. He was almost a foot away, ready to cut off a limb if it meant capturing her.

He reached for his weapon as he threw himself off of the building. Before he had time to fight, the deed was done. He exhaled sharply as he looked down at the sword. He felt lightheaded. For a moment, he forgot where he was and thought of home- Hamelin. _Marcassin…_ he thought, the image of his smiling little brother greeting him flashing before his eyes. He closed them for a moment as the pain began to flare back into his consciousness.

She winced, closing her eyes. She looked up and saw a ghastly sight: standing in front of her, impaled on a sword with blood dripping from the tip, was her beloved uncle. His gun was drawn, his hands were frozen in a flinch at his sides. She heard him cough and saw the blade retract, leaving a blood-stained tear in his gold jacket. He fell back and she caught him.

She peered over him and focused on his face. He breathed weakly. "Uncle," she whispered hesitantly. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tilted his head away from her. He looked back at her with them, his eyes half open as he assessed her. It meant a fatal blow… but he had saved her from being injured again. He smiled faintly at her.

One of the men started to advance but was halted by Amos. He looked at them and shook his head. "Let them have their moment," he allowed. "A man's last words are sacred."

"Hey," he began. "Remember what we talked about," he breathed, smirking. He reached up and caressed his dear niece's left cheek. "My beautiful, brilliant niece… Marcassin's lucky to have you…," he tried, his voice becoming more ragged with each labored breath. "You'll do Hamelin proud." He chuckled and coughed. "See," he began to explain, struggling to breathe. "I told you I'd do anything for you…" He coughed even more violently as he lifted his right hand. He shakily placed his gun in her hand and met her gaze with a saddened but proud smile. "I'm so…," he struggled to say, his voice cracking from the pain, from the dizziness he felt. He felt himself drift away for a moment and he winced, grasping at whatever energy he could find. _Not yet,_ he thought. _At least this. Give me this._

"Save your energy, you old fool," she cried. "Esther will get here. She'll heal you. Just- just hold on!" She shook him gently as tears started to form. "Just- just hang in there!"

He shook his head weakly and looked at her. "I'm proud," he whispered. "I…" He couldn't even get past the first word. He just looked at her and hoped she knew. _I love you…_ He thought but couldn't find the energy to say. His gaze drifted up to the sky. "Lynnea…," he called out with his final breath, closing his eyes for the last time.

Her eyes widened as his hand fell from her face. She shook him. "No, no, no! Swaine! Uncle Gascon!" She gripped his shoulders and drew her wand. It had to work. She still had a chance to save him! She fished out her notebook and opened it to a healing spell. "Healing hand," she called out, throwing the wand towards the wound. Nothing. "Healing Hand, Healing Hand, _Healing Hand_ ," she shouted with each attempt. Nothing. He lied lifeless in her arms. She held him close, cradling the limp thief. "No, please! Don't leave! I don't want to be alone! I'll do anything! _Anything!_ " He didn't answer. "I- Please! Don't die! Don't- no," she wailed as she held him close.

"Murderers! The lot of you," she roared, her head snapping up from the corpse of her uncle. She carefully set him down and stared down the guard that had taken arms against them. She saw the bloody sword, stained with the ambassador of Hamelin, the elder brother of its very ruler, a hero of their world, _her_ uncle's blood. Tears of grief and anguish flooded her eyes. "You. You killed him! Do you have _any_ idea who he was?! He was my _uncle_!"

"So, what does that matter," the guard sneered. "You are a fugitive, a wanted criminal. His identity is no issue. He was just as guilty of protecting you."

"You have no idea. You talk of me as if I'm the worst of the worst, the scum of the earth!" She stood. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The weight of the life you've taken?" She laughed hollowly, her shoulders heaving as she looked away from them and away from his body. "He wasn't only my uncle…," she muttered. "He wasn't just my uncle," she screamed as she raised her own pickpocketing gun with the Cad's Cannon and aimed them both at the guard.

She began to fire as she sobbed, her tears and heaving shoulders causing her to miss her target. With each shot, she told, "You've committed a crime against not only I, not only Hamelin, not only against the crown of Hamelin but the world! You've killed a living legend! You've killed Swaine! You've killed Prince Gascon, elder brother to my father, Prince Marcassin! You've killed the ambassador of Hamelin!" She put her gun into her pocket and she slapped her chest and patted it violently. " _My_ uncle!" Her face was red and full of rage despite her tear stained cheeks. She reloaded the Cannon and then her gun and swallowed as she took aim. "You make me sick." She fired off another round of shots.

The men next to him looked in shock at their leader as they backed away from the fire. Amos paid no mind to them. He knew his actions would one day return to haunt him. For now, he was to apprehend a thief. He began to walk towards her calmly, coldly, robotically. He gripped his cutlass firmly.

"Scrofie," Esther called from the alleyway. She fought past the men, her father following closely behind. Despite this, the distraught teen still shot at the former guard. As the harpist narrowly dodged the bullets she got closer to the scene. She saw the state she was in- enraged and grief-stricken. Confused, the blond looked around and noticed the body of her old friend. "S-Swaine...," she gasped, walking behind his grieving niece. She looked back at the teen who was still firing at the now still Amos who watched the scene unfold.

She glanced at Esther for a moment and managed to eke out, "He's dead," through her sobs.

In reverence, the harpist looked down at her comrade. She knelt to examine him. She shook her head. "Swaine… You- you always used to bounce back. Like it was nothing." She released a sad chuckle. "You big coward, so afraid to lose someone close to you." She stood heaved a heavy sigh before turning to Scrofie. She saw her father warding the fire away from the guard and the men who followed him with his staff. Rashaad looked at his daughter and sent a signaling nod to calm the teen down.

She heard the girl curse when both guns ran out of the third round of bullets, the click of the firing mechanism repeating. She saw her reach for a wand. Esther grabbed the teen's right arm. "Scrofie. Stop. It's alright. You can stop now," she tried to persuade.

"No," she shouted. "They have to pay! They've killed him!" She put the guns away and flipped open her notebook to a random attack spell. She didn't care. Even if the others all got blown away, even if it meant injuring herself, someone had to pay!

Esther's eyes widened as she began to panic. She looked back at Swaine and then back at the group, especially her father. She began to wonder what the thief would have to say about this instance- he always had some sort of opinion when caught in a situation. She shook her head as the teen tried several times to complete a rune, only for her shaky hand to force her to start over. "Swaine wouldn't want this," she finally stated. "He wouldn't want this at all." She shook the teen. "Please! Just stop! You'll get yourself killed, Scrofie!"

Scrofie finally froze, again caught in mid-rune. She let the rune fall and looked at the frightened harpist. She collapsed, falling into Esther's arms and sobbed once again. "There, there," she comforted, rubbing the young thief's shoulders. "I know… The world won't be the same…," she whispered quietly. "He was, at heart, a good man."

The ward fell. For a brief moment, Rashaad had disappeared. The sage reappeared in a flash of light and walked forward with an unexpected company behind him. The Great Sage of Hamelin rushed to his brother's side and looked him over. "Gascon...," He bowed his head and breathed heavily. He looked over at Esther. "How did this happen?"

Esther shook her head and glanced down at the now quietly whimpering teen.

"Lynnea…," he quietly asked. He knelt next to the two. He reached out to his daughter. "Lynnea, please… I need to know. What happened?"

"Father. It's all my fault," she squeaked, earning a confused glance from the harpist. "I should have never left home… He wouldn't have had to protect me. I- I've killed him. It's all my fault," she answered, burying her head into Esther's shoulder.

"No, no… It's not your fault," Marcassin eased. "He gave his life to protect you. He loved you like his own daughter," he shakily continued as he rubbed her back. He halted when he felt the crease where her wooden arm began. He closed his eyes. "He died as he lived. He never could stop himself from filling the role of older brother." He breathed heavily and gripped the back of her jacket. "I'm so sorry, Lynnea."

The guard was still for a moment as he looked down in bafflement at the group mere feet away from him. His eyes widened suddenly at the type of garb the man wore and he backed away. He was a sage. He had to be. "Then… You're- you can't be." He looked at the corpse. " _He_ can't be-!" His panicked face twisted into an evil smirk, unaware of the forty-seven-year old's true status. "Step aside, all of you," he ordered. "I have a bounty to claim," he used his sword to point at the girl.

"You still intend to collect it? Even after all that you've learned," Rashaad questioned furiously. "Have you no honor? No shame?" He stamped his staff into the ground before approaching Amos. "I-," he began, shaking the staff at the former guard. "I shall not let you collect it."

He glared at Rashaad. "I never let a criminal go- even if they are being protected by a Great Sage. She will pay for her crimes against the state as a _thief_!"

"That is _enough_ ," Marcassin demanded as he stood. "She has suffered enough, don't you think?!" He approached Amos. "As of now, there is no bounty. Whatever she has stolen will be paid back in full by Hamelin itself." He locked a threatening gaze with the former guard.

The guard blinked for a moment and sneered again. "On whose orders?"

"Err… Sir," Gavin began, tapping Amos's elbow. "That's-,"

"The Emperor of Hamelin's orders." He glared at the guard. "Or do you wish to make your queen angry with you for starting a war?" He raised an eyebrow. "Killing my brother is more than enough to start one," he bitterly reminded him as he turned away. "I shall seek retribution later. No more blood than necessary must be spilled over this." He looked over his shoulder. "My brother fought hard to bring peace to this world. I doubt he would want to see it ruined by his death, after all," he solemnly stated, turning his head back and beginning to retrieve his wand.

"But… but, your majesty- she is a criminal," Amos protested, eyeing the sage.

"She is my _daughter._ " He swiftly turned and glared into the bounty hunter's eyes. He held his hand over the wand at his hip. "I have no qualms about using force to protect my own."

When Amos hesitated, Marcassin nodded and cast Travel on him and his family. They disappeared from view.

Rashaad approached his daughter and looked down. "Esther…," he softly began.

She began to cry. After all that, she finally began to sob. It wasn't until they left that it sank in. Swaine was gone. There would be no more arguments about right and wrong between them. There would be no more surprise visits as he ran errands for Hamelin or tales of whatever misadventures he ended up going on over a cup of coffee. He was gone. That man who had saved them countless times just by being there, being the most durable of the group… killed by a stab of a simple sword.

She felt robbed, like their friendship had been a precious item, stolen by a cruel and heartless thief. The irony was palpable and harsh. She clutched her arms as she wept. "He's dead. He's really dead, isn't he, father?" She shook her head and looked up with tears streaming down her face. "He's never coming back. Swaine's never coming back, is he?"

The Great Sage of Al Mamoon was silent and solemn. She already knew the answer. She just needed closure. He slowly shook his head. He took a knee and outstretched a hand for his daughter to take. "Come, Esther. We will pay our respects." She steadily took his hand and they both disappeared in a flash of light from the alleyway.

The men looked at Amos in stunned angered silence. "Now what," the bearded man shouted. "We're wanted by Hamelin, now!"

"Correction: _I'm_ wanted by Hamelin, now." He looked down at his bloodied sword and frowned. "I did this." He sighed and shook his head. He turned around and walked past them. "I will turn myself in to the royal guard and await the Great Sage to fetch me. I suggest you disassociate yourselves from this as much as you can from here." With that, he turned a corner to head for the busier thoroughfare of town.


	9. Grief

She sat alone… All alone. That's where she deserved to be. She felt unworthy of anyone. Even as she blankly stared at what seemed like the fiftieth schematic of one of the burnt-out inventions that lined the shelves of the deceased, she felt empty. It was her fault. It was all her fault.

She blinked as she stared down at the page. "Yes, uncle, I see…," she whispered to herself. She couldn't bring herself to face it. It had happened, she knew, but she still held on. She isolated herself in his room, reading schematic upon schematic, formulae upon formulae, book upon long dead penned book. She figured he could still teach her.

He was still alive in that aspect. He had left this behind- his knowledge documented so neatly on pages more than forty years old. Propped up, the youngest of his works against ancient texts was the journal he had given her mere moments before his untimely demise; open to the last schematic ever penned, a replacement arm for his dear niece.

She didn't know what to do with it, where to find the parts- but as she read his notes, as she read the notes of other authors whom he had learned from, she found clues as to where they would be. Swaine was still teaching her. That's what she believed for now.

Even then, she felt deep down in her stomach, deep down in her soul, that she didn't deserve any of this privilege. If she had just stayed home, he wouldn't have had to risk his life. If she hadn't been so selfish, a legend would still be alive, and the world would be a brighter place.

But she didn't. And he wasn't. She knew, even as she read his neat, cursive handwriting that she no longer deserved to be under his tutelage. She no longer deserved to learn anything from him, even if he were dead.

"' _Scrofie',"_ she replayed him saying in her head, testing out the false name the morning after their little spat in the desert. _"That's kind of unusual. How'd you come up with that?"_ She recalled herself shrugging. She explained that she liked the name, Sofie, and she figured, by then, that she'd look kind of scruffy, so she combined the two. She felt a tear roll down her face as she remembered the smirk he had at the plain simplicity of it. She'd never see that cocky smile again…

She didn't stop. Stopping would mean that he was truly gone. Stopping would mean that his words would no longer reach her from beyond the grave.

The door opened and she looked up from another unfurled blueprint. In the doorway stood her father, Marcassin. "You cannot hide in here forever, Lynnea."

She turned to look down at the paper again. "I know," she whispered. "I… I just want to learn from Uncle Gascon. There's- there's so much he hasn't taught me in here."

He seemed to freeze in place from her perspective. He hadn't moved from the door. She couldn't see the concerned frown that graced the younger brother's lips. "Lynnea… You know he's…," he felt a lump in his throat and swallowed. "He's… He's dead, right?"

"I know," she breathed as she almost mechanically rolled up the paper and took out another at the old work desk. "He can still teach me with these." She turned to the side to glance at her father. "I have to. It's all I can do for him. It's all I can ever do for anyone." She turned back to face the wall. "He would want me to keep learning," she hollowly stated, glancing over the schematic.

Marcassin could only sigh at her. There wasn't anything he could do- she was in denial. He sighed heavily and nodded. "If that's what you wish, Lynnea." He carefully and quietly closed the door as he turned away.

He walked numbly to the throne room and stared at the grieving Esther being comforted by Rashaad. They had stayed over for the now passed funeral. The songstress sometimes seemed inconsolable, bursting into tears as if he were her own family. In a way, the younger sage supposed he was, considering all of the things they had been through together.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He had bags under his eyes. He couldn't sleep. He stayed up all night through most of the week processing and amending laws for future review. It was all he could do to keep the mind off the grim reality. The state he was in… What would his brother say?

"I keep thinking I'll see him in the reflection behind me," the royal softly admitted as he stared into the glossy metal wall. He raised a hand and idly rubbed the metal, admiring his own reflection longingly. "He'd just be there: leaning against a wall and smirking." He turned around and looked back at the woman.

"But he won't. Never again," she informed him, looking up at Marcassin. She wiped her irritated nose with her arm and sniffed. "How- how's Scrofie?"

He heaved a heavy sigh and looked away. His shoulders were low. "She's… choosing to bury herself in her work. I can't say I blame her." He smiled sadly. "Looking over his old blueprints and obsessing over machinery." He chuckled for a moment. "Funny. He did the exact same thing when our father died- remember?"

She nodded. "Yeah." She returned the sad smile. "He wouldn't let anyone near him either. He'd just act like a big baby and fuss." She laughed at the memory but then looked down. "Has Josephine said anything to her?"

He shook his head. "She's tried. But…" He looked up and sighed. "What can either of us do? Lynnea's shut down. She can't be reached." He squeezed his eyes shut as he looked down. He clenched his fist. "I don't know how to approach this, Esther. She ran away. I have every right to be furious with her." He looked up at his fellow Sage who now seemed to be studying him. "But I could have lost her!" He moaned lowly, "And the price we paid to get her back was Gascon, my brother. Her uncle."

"Discuss it when cooler heads prevail. Now is not the time to reprimand but support, your majesty," Rashaad advised.

The blond nodded at her father and looked back at the ruler. "Yes. I agree. You don't have to talk. Just- just be there for her. She needs you."

He nodded, accepting their advice. "Thank you. Both of you." Just as soon as a hint of a comforted smile graced his face, his wife walked through the doors. His gaze darted to his beloved. She seemed frightened and nervous. Something had happened, he reasoned, something that would frighten someone as self-assured as Josephine.

"Marcassin, my dear," she cried as she approached him. "It's- You must come at once!" She seemed to tremble as she reached for his shoulder. "A prisoner of Al Mamoon- They say he's- Oh god," she stammered, holding her hand to her mouth.

"Calm down," he eased. "Just breathe. Tell me." He placed a hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. "What is it that has you in such an uproar, Josephine?"

She shook her head before lowering her hand. "Gascon's murderer- he's here! He's seeking audience!" She looked into her husband's eyes as tears began to form. "Please, I beg of you not to see him! I don't want to lose you, too!"

He gripped tighter on her shoulders and searched her eyes. "How…? How did you hear of this?"

"I was on my way to see you- initially for Lynnea's sake. The guards were bringing him in when I passed through the main hall." She shook her head. "The prisoner- he looked like a forlorn former soldier of Al Mamoon. When I asked the guards why they brought him they said that he was 'wanted for crimes against the crown.'" She raised her hands and gripped his upper arms as she stared, horrified, into his eyes. "Then… Then he said, after catching his breath and spitting at the floor, 'I have come to repay the life debt I owe to your king. Let me see him- let me free so I may finish what I've started.'" She shook the sage with tears flowing down her cheeks. "Please! Don't grant him his request! I couldn't bear to watch you die as well!"

Marcassin drew her into an embrace. He raised a hand and rung it through her dark brown hair, comforting his distraught partner. "Be still my darling queen," he cooed. "I will not be alone." He glanced over at Esther who gave a firm, stoic nod. He rested his head against his wife's and rocked her gently. "He may have killed my brother, but he is neither the White Witch or Shadar. His chains should hold." He held her at arm's length, her arms intertwined with his. "I will not abandon you, Josephine!" He smiled knowingly, determinedly at her. "I shall impart justice to him and he will do no harm to anyone else."

She studied his face worriedly. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his. "For the sake of the world, I hope you're right."

"Have faith, Josephine, in your husband," he whispered before letting her go. He turned and nodded at his fellow sage and his daughter. They rose and followed him to the great hall. As he passed guards on patrol, he motioned them to follow him as a precautionary measure. He barged into the space and found exactly what he'd thought he'd see: Amos, the guard who had struck down a legend, now only legendary for that grim reality on his knees. For that, he didn't hold his head high or did he smile. In fact, to the ruler's relief, he held his head low and bent down in shame. Black strands of messy hair now hung over his face from under his purple turban. He looked decrepit as he sat studying his chains.

"You there, murderer," he branded him as he called him to attention, as he swung his scepter out to point at him. "You are aware of the price you must pay," he grimly asked.

He raised his head slowly to look up. Before he could answer a shout rung out in the hall. The convict's eyes widened when the girl he had been hunting ran through the guards and passed her father. Her face was set, her stare was cold. She held the gun her uncle had bequeathed to her at point-blank range to the man's head.

The guards next to their threatened captive froze and exchanged glances, unsure of what to do. One raised his hand slowly but was met with a wand swiftly pointed at him. When he backed away, she lowered it but kept it at the ready. She shot a cautionary glare at the other who stayed himself. "Well- are you," she coldly asked. She stared into the prisoner's frightened eyes.

"You killed my uncle. Surely you would know, wouldn't you," she roared. "How dare you even think to enter this palace!" The gun trembled as she gritted her teeth. " _Murderer!_ "

He stared up at her, taken aback by the youth's words. She wasn't wrong- he had advised the Cowlipha to send him to Hamelin for his sentence under strict guard of her choosing. From the docks, he was transferred to a guard arranged by Hogarth under very last-minute notice. Not even Marcassin knew of the situation at hand, though the emperor's most trusted second in command knew he'd understand if all went well. His eyes narrowed as he studied the seething form of a girl.

"Lynnea," her father called out to her, reaching out a hand. "What do you think you're doing? This isn't your place," he lectured, stepping towards his daughter. "This isn't your choice to make!"

Amos glanced at the prince with a sly smirk. "It became her choice when she drew her gun."

"Silence," Marcassin ordered, waving away with his right hand, throwing it towards the fountains.

"What does it matter if I die here at gunpoint," he goaded as he shifted his gaze back to the girl. "My penance would amount to a life of servitude or death." He looked into her eyes once more. When she hesitated and looked down in thought he laughed. "You can't do it, can you, thief?"

She pressed the end of the gun to the former guard's head with a growl. Her hands steadied again as rage filled her eyes.

"Lynnea, don't," Esther shouted. "What good will it do? You'd be just as bad as him!"

"Listen to her, revenge won't bring Gascon back," the younger sage reinforced.

Amos smirked and nodded at Lynnea. "Indeed. It would just make you a killer- and that can change a person. You stop looking at people the same after your first blood." He chuckled despite his position as he searched the teen's eyes. "But I can tell… He didn't train a _killer_. He trained a thief."

She twisted the muzzle into his head, making the prisoner wince. "Stop talking like you know him!"

"Oh, but if the roles had been reversed, he would have shot me dead," he continued. "I know criminals. The underground: kill or be killed, as they say." He glanced up at the mauve gun. "But you have yet to pull the trigger."

 _What do I do_ , she thought as her shaking index finger hesitated over the trigger. She felt it lightly press it down, then release it. She wanted so badly to end him. He'd die anyway, she reasoned. Something inside- was it pride…? Fear? Something in her gut shouted at her not to do it. _What should I do…?_ Perhaps there was truth to the convict's words. She probably risked losing herself, then and there.

"Marcassin, we should do something," Esther advised from his side.

"I can't. I don't know if anything I do would make it on time. She might actually do it," he whispered back.

"Let her choose, then," Rashaad suggested with his arms crossed, frowning. "She's seventeen, nearly three years older than Esther was when I let her go on her own."

The younger sage reared back suddenly. "But this is a matter of ethics and laws," he contested as he glared at Rashaad. "I cannot let an execution be had in such a manner- especially at the hands of my _daughter_ , Rashaad."

Hearing this, she lowered her head for a moment to think. She looked up and for a moment, believed to have a vision- or that's what she called it. Her uncle, wearing the clothes he had described himself wearing in the legends, was standing just to the right side of the other entrance of the main hall. For just her and him, time seemed to stop. He had his arms crossed and shook his head with a disapproving frown. He closed his eyes and smirked comfortably. _"It's alright…,"_ the look he cast seemed to say. Not her- he wouldn't have wanted blood on her hands.

She finally lowered the gun from Amos's head. "I can't. I won't. You've already sealed your fate." She looked at the gun with a sad smile. "This gun isn't meant for this- it never was."

"Are you sure, girl," the former guard asked as she began to walk past him.

She held the weapon limply at her side and looked up at the large glass dome. She seemed to trace the metal beams that arched and snaked into spirals and curves with her eyes. She released a heavy sigh with closed eyes and a pensive smile. "It isn't my call…" She tilted her head. "You are right about one thing… He would never train a killer."

Amos lowered his head and studied his chains. "You have every right to kill me." He looked up at the others for a moment. They hadn't made a move to end him, either. "I see. It seems you are more honorable than I thought." He brought himself to stand. "Do give Captain Hogarth my apologies for the last-minute transfer of my keep." He nodded and looked down at his bindings once more. "I await your sentence, your highness," he said lowly as he awaited the guards to take him.

"That will be decided at a later date," Marcassin stated. He watched as the guards took Amos's arms and led him away. His eyes followed the turban bound man. The former Al Mamoon guard turned his head to look back at him with a curious but regretful glance.

When he was gone, Lynnea fell to her hands and knees and clutched her chest. Her father and the songstress rushed to her side.

"Lynnea," he shouted worriedly. "Lynnea, are you alright?" She felt his hand rest tenderly on her back. At his touch, she began to bawl. Her hands tensed and her shoulders violently shook. The pendant in her pocket, taken off of Gascon as soon as they had returned to the palace, began to glow a faint green. It shook and three bright lights shot out and formed his three former familiars.

Squishy approached the teen and attempted to comfort her by rubbing its head on her right shoulder. The Aye-aye Sir, a lemur with a golden bushy mane, sat on her left shoulder. It placed its front paws on the back of her head and pressed its own against her hair with closed eyes and released a saddened chirp. The final familiar, the Greater Naiad, a jellyfish-like nymph, hovered close, gripping a gem and watching with a concerned air.

She looked up suddenly, startling the lemur slightly, but not enough to deter it. "Wha- Why are they all out," she wondered, sniffling.

"They sense your pain…," Esther softly answered.

Lynnea looked down. "But why…? I don't know the other two. Just Squishy." At the sound of its name, the yeti pressed more into her arm, rubbing its head comfortingly against it.

"They were his familiars," Marcassin reminded her. "They've known you since the day you were born." He rubbed her back. "They know that what you've just gone through was incredibly stressful." He rubbed her back soothingly.

"That man," she whispered. "I almost made a terrible mistake." She began to sob again. "Uncle Gascon," she wailed. "I'm sorry. I almost broke the promise I made to you."

"Promise?" Esther tilted her head in confusion. "What was it," she asked as she moved closer to the teen.

"To never use this gun to hurt anyone," she said through heaves of air. Her shoulders shook violently. "In fact, I've already broken it!" She stared down at the weapon being pressed into the floor. "I'm so sorry," she whimpered.

The yeti backed away and watched as she cried. It looked over at Marcassin as if to tell him something. He looked up at it and nodded in silent agreement. He reached around her shoulders, the lemur hopping down on the ground but remaining by her side. He pulled his daughter to his chest. "Lynnea," he whispered. "It's alright. It'll be alright," he eased, rubbing her shoulder. "He couldn't have known- none of us could have," he quietly explained as she cried into his chest. He felt tears begin to form in the corner of his eyes. He rested his head on top of her's and rocked her gently. He lowered his head and hid a sniffle behind her hair. "Gascon wouldn't blame you. He- he wouldn't…," he barely choked out.

He couldn't hold back the tears any longer. He had kept as cool as well he could during the funeral. He had shed silent tears, then, too. Now, however, comforting his daughter, seeing her so broken up, broke the stoic façade of the now lone porcine prince. He clung to Lynnea and cried with her. He barely registered the sympathetic hand of Esther resting on the small of his back or the somber bow of her head.

And the orphan familiars watched as the family and friends of their master grieved. They didn't leave their side for as long as they were there. It would betray their master's final wishes- his nature.


	10. Acceptance

This was the third time this week! She woke up to find herself being held by a familiar large and fuzzy snow monster. It had its arms wrapped around her fetal form protectively. She grumbled irritably through the fur. Lying next to her was Vemahl, the lemur, snuggly curled up next to her head. The jellyfish like nymph had snuggled up against her chest, its gem dormant.

They wouldn't leave her alone. They insisted on staying with her even though it had been months since the death of her uncle. She would shake the pendant at them to call them back and they would simply stare. She wondered why they persisted on following her, on constantly keeping her so close? She couldn't tap into them like she could with Avery. Would they sometimes listen to her when she told them to do something? Yes, but not in the same knowing way the robot could. They were not _her_ familiars. They were Gascon's… and they still had a task to fulfill, whatever that task was.

They were just following orders, his final requests, she reasoned from beneath the bulk of the yeti's arms. Apparently, that request included being snatched up from her bed and held like an infant, according to the papa sasquash. She remembered having a nightmare, but not one bad enough for her to wake up from the night before. She began to think about the other two times they reacted this way. She had had a horrible dream on those nights, too. This went beyond overprotective in her mind. She could handle a bad dream. She didn't need to be comforted like a small child. She growled into the fur again, this time waking the ape-like creature. Its eyes snapped open and looked down at her. It wined sympathetically as it loosened its arms.

"Squishy," she complained with a sour look. "Could you stop doing this? I'm not a baby," she ordered bitterly. She straightened up and winced. She rubbed her left shoulder where her wooden arm was connected. _Odd… I shouldn't feel pain there, not with a cushion._ She removed the left sleeve of her jacket, awaking the nymph, and looked at the crease. It looked a little inflamed but not infected. She and the two familiars stared at it for a moment, all silently trying to figure out what to do.

Gemini, she learned the nymph was called from her father, chirped and tossed her opaque white and gold gem up and down and drew closer to her left shoulder. It raised the tendrils on its cape and slid them into the crevice between her arm with a curious look. "Hey! The hell?! Stop it," she yelped, brushing over her shoulder and attempting to knock the tiny feelers out. When they withdrew, she saw pieces of dried up blades of grass. The bag had torn. She needed to replace it.

She stood up and held her left arm once she regained her footing. The lemur's ears twitched and Vemahl raised its head blearily. She lifted it and the coarse grass and hard, dried out wood scraped against her skin. She gritted her teeth and winced in pain once more as she looked the pseudo limb over. Some of the wood had started to crack from being exposed to the desert sun during the week she had traveled with Swaine. Now it had been exposed the cooler air of Hamelin over time which had worsened its condition. On top of that, daily use had bowed some of it despite the suspension she had installed.

It wouldn't last. It would crumble away before long. She wondered how long it would be before it would become unusable. This wear and tear it bared were what he had foreseen when he designed the other arm. Perhaps if there was a way to keep his memory alive it would be to bring that arm to life! She flexed the fingers like clockwork, reassuring herself that they were still there. She reached for her nightstand next to her bed. She hesitated when her eyes fell upon the metal wind up robot with two extra metal arms bolted on by her fifteen-year-old self. She had made sure that they moved with the original arms smoothly, intertwining the gears with the original internal mechanism. She never got the chance to show him how much she had improved this ancient gift.

It was a mark of progress in her engineering skills. She supposed he knew how much she'd improved when he saw the gun and her wooden arm. She let a sad smirk cross her face as she reached for the drawer, opening it to reveal his parting gift to her- to the world. She flipped through it, landing on the schematic of the arm. The page next to it listed the parts she needed. And where would she find such unique pieces, she wondered. Nothing in her previous studies of machines included them. Nothing but…

Her eyes widened as they glanced from word to word on the page. She remembered the schematics of the old machines, burnt out and long since deemed useless. Oh, but they weren't! They were so much more useful now than they ever had been! She snapped the book shut and turned around to face the unlikely trio of familiars with a grin.

She called on her robot. Avery glanced at the yeti and with a sad mechanical growl and an exchange of nods, the two had an agreement. She looked between all of them. "Well, you lot?" She held the book under the left arm and took out her own pickpocketing gun. "Ready to do an old thief proud?" With a loud chorus of excited howling and chirping, her smile widened, and she twirled the gun with a newfound enthusiasm. She left her room and headed for her uncle's.

There she would piece together her new arm. She would infuse magic into it with her left and adjust the mechanical parts with her right. Avery, handy with four arms would disassemble parts methodically or even pry them open if need be. Vemahl and Gemini were quick to pick up the small devices she needed- she'd often point them out to the creatures after taking down the blueprints and gesturing whatever housed the cog or bolt necessary. Whatever he wanted them to do, this was part of it. They spared no energy helping her create her arm.

She sighed agitatedly as she looked at the plans once more. Whatever metal she needed the case would have to be made down in the lower part of the palace where the royal blacksmiths and engineers toiled away. She couldn't wait for her father's approval… She shook her head as she looked at the scraps of dead machinations of her late uncle. They were ancient things, cobbled together by someone so much like her- an inventor, a creator. She looked at her arm, at the runes that covered it and glowed a faint magenta color- the aura of her magic. He probably made the parts by endearing his much younger self- younger than she could imagine- to the blacksmith there.

She imagined an old man laughing when he showed them the piece he needed but obliging him anyway for his creative and ambitious spirit. Whether he had actually done something like that, she didn't know. What she did know was that he had no access to magic. She, on the other hand, _had_ magic! Fuse! That spell was a gift from the heavens to a person like her! She intended to use it.

She intended to use Rejuvenate, too, if the plans called for it! She laughed at herself when she recalled she could have just used that spell on her arm if it broke. But what was the point? It would just break continuously! And she needed something that wasn't going to catch her on fire if she cast a fireball spell with her other wand.

As she began her work on constructing the frame, the door opened. She turned and squinted as the hall light flooded the room, the lamp, her magic, Avery, and the Greater Naiad being the only sources of light she had. In the center of the light was the familiar silhouette of her father. "Huh," she squeaked.

"Lynnea…? What are you-," he began, shock filling his voice. He looked at the walls where the inventions had been. He looked down at the scraps of metal, once artifacts of his fallen brother now mangled and torn. She could sense the rage in his shadowed stare. "You- Do you know what you've done," he shouted. He stomped forward. He seethed in anger and his shoulders shook. "Have you no respect for him? Of all the people! I thought you would be the most careful," he roared, leaning forward.

"F-father," she yelped, picking up the book and holding it up to show him. "I need these parts! For my arm," she bargained. "He wanted me to build-"

"He wouldn't have wanted you to destroy his work," he threw back at her, emphasizing as he gestured to the rest of the room. "He would be furious of you!" He picked up one of the mangled gadgets. "He could never create any of these ever again!"

"So, what," she snapped, getting up from her chair. "So, what if he never creates these again?! They were _failures_!" She gestured to the damaged model flying machine in her father's hands. "They never worked! Now they have more purpose other than just sitting on a shelf, gathering dust!"

He stepped forward again, his hands on his hips. He scowled at her. "They are proof he was here! They are proof of his existence, his successes and his failures, Lynnea! That he wasn't a figment of legend," he lectured sternly. His tone shocked him, though he refused to show it: for a moment he sounded like his father had… how history seemed to repeat itself.

She took a blueprint and shook it at him. "This! _This_ is proof! I can rebuild these! All of these! He even noted what needed to be-"

"That is not the point," he interjected. He finally closed his eyes and shook his head. "No," he began, raising a hand. "No, I will not have this conversation with you!"

"Well, I _am_! I need these parts! I need the metal from these! I _need_ a new arm," she protested, holding the book up at him again.

"And you will," he harshly returned. "But not from here! Not from this room!"

"He wouldn't have implemented _these_ specific parts if he didn't want-!"

"And how could you possibly begin to fathom what he wanted, Lynnea?! What do you know of Gascon?! What could you possibly know that I don't," he shouted at her. He grabbed her right arm angrily and leaned forward. "You may have known him for most of your young life, but I've known him longer," he hissed venomously.

He began to tug on her arm, pulling her unwilling form towards the door. As she resisted, he continued to yank her from the room. "You will be allowed in this room no longer," he decreed. Avery floated in front of him and he drew his wand. He cast Frostbite, effectively freezing the robot to the ceiling. As he drew closer to the door, he felt s tug on his turquoise tunic.

Marcassin looked back and noticed Squishy pulling back with its teeth. He fiercely glared at his daughter. "Stop this madness, Lynnea! Listen to your father!"

She looked in awe at the sight and looked back at the sage. "No… I can't. He's not my familiar," she responded, though a bit defiantly.

The ruler looked back in confusion at the yeti still tugging on his top. He looked at her then back at the door. The Greater Naiad drifted in front of him and, with a frown, shook its light pink head slowly.

"I… I may not have known him for as long as you, but…," she quietly began to explain. "I know he did things for a reason. He always had a reason…" She looked down for a moment in thought. "I believe…," she started again. She furrowed her brow and looked up with a determined look in her eye. "I _believe_ he included those specific parts for a reason! He wanted those inventions to be _useful_ in some way!" She tilted her head and a tear rolled out of her left eye. "He wanted them to still be useful! To be molded into something new! And he knew if anyone could do it, I could!"

Marcassin glanced at the floor once again. He withdrew his hand forcefully. She was right. This was Gascon all over again. Even when he considered himself a failure he pushed himself to be useful to anyone else if he could be. And here his niece was… determined to make the last invention he had planned a reality. Making something new out of the old and broken, rising up to the challenge of proving her father wrong.

He almost wished he had never uttered those words to his older brother. He almost wished she weren't so much like him, now. He knew, looking back at her, studying her, that she was aware of herself, her identity now- that she wasn't following along in either of their shadows… But she was _so_ much like him… and it hurt. It hurt because she reminded him of his loss. It hurt because he saw that stubborn will of his brother and his long-dead father in her.

He looked away and began to make his exit. "Do what you want," he seemingly bitterly remarked. He stopped in the doorway and turned. The light illuminated part of his face. Tears fell passed a contradictory but confident smile. "Do what you've always done best, create." With that, he left, leaving behind his daughter.

She looked at the yeti and the rest of the familiars. Squishy nodded affirmatively. She walked back to the desk feeling defeated. She shook her head, the image of her father's confident smile on his face reassuring her. She would build this arm. While it would be a model conceived by her uncle, she would be the one behind its success. While she waited for Avery to break out of his icy, prison, she used her spells to make the parts she needed. She pulled parts from scrapped broken inventions and used the rest to create her new limb.

This was her… No healing abilities what so ever. She had plenty of other magic abilities to speak of… but her best ones were the ones she used to invent! She grinned as she continued to infuse each part with magic as she shaped them. She looked back at the design and smirked as she thought of other ideas even her mentor hadn't thought of. As she began to break down yet another device crucial to the success of the limb, she hesitated.

Perhaps her father was right about one thing: these _were_ artifacts of a long dead prince. Would the device she made now out of all of these pieces amount to any of the memories they held? She didn't even know what kind of past they had once seen. Perhaps one of them had been a bonding experience between him and her father. She hadn't even stopped to consider that. She sighed heavily and continued her work on her arm. She would face it when the time came.

* * *

"What do I do, Gascon," Marcassin called, standing next to Josephine in front of the royal tomb. He had brought flowers to put in the holder in front. The older brother had been laid to rest next to the previous emperor of Hamelin. In a grim way, it was the closest they had been in a long time. "You seemed to have connected to her better than I, her own father." He laughed somberly at the reality of it all. "She'll never be a sage. I guess this is how father must have felt when he realized the same thing about you, hmm?" He tilted his head at the nameplate. "And yet… He still wanted you to be emperor." He smirked as he observed the nameplate. "But you ran away just before he died- before you even knew his true motives." He nodded with a lamenting smile. "How foolish you were- though I'm sure you figured that out when you went to the past." He chuckled at that bit of knowledge.

He sighed and looked down when there was no response from the tomb. His wife watched in silence as the sage paid his respects. "I sounded like father, today…" He laughed bitterly. "You probably would have been beside yourself, hearing me talk like that. I know you never really got along." He placed a hand on the plaque and looked at it. It had been months since his older brother's death, but he still grieved.

He shook his head. "I've thought over and over again about bringing you back," he admitted. "The spell, that forbidden spell! I thought over and over again- would it be worth it? What part would I lose, brother? What could I stand to lose… Just so you could return… Just so I could see you one final time?" He started to tremble as he pressed his head to the plate on the wall.

He felt the arms of his wife wrap around him in comfort. She knew there was nothing she could do. Nothing but comfort her king when he needed it. She missed Gascon as well, though they hardly conversed when he visited. She was often busy handling the affairs of state so the two would have time to catch up with each other. It wasn't uncommon for their daughter to also hang out with them as it gave time for some much-needed uncle and niece bonding. In a way, she supposed, she was repaying him for all his help during that year their daughter was born.

She looked on sadly at the memorial placard. She remembered, when she had the time to check up on the three of them, watching as Lynnea eagerly begged for another tale from the former thief or the eager chatting of two brothers as one exchanged more recent personal misadventures for details on the latest innovations of Hamelin. Those times were now treasured memories made rare by shortened life of a legend.

Marcassin went deathly still for a moment. When Josephine went to observe his face, she found a shocked expression- his eyes were wide, his mouth hung open, and his face was as pale as could be. "Marcassin? Are you alright," she inquired out of concern.

He raised his head suddenly, swiftly. "Something's here," he stated. "There's a presence." He looked around and reached for his scepter. "Who goes there," he shouted. He began to turn, panic filling his once sullen eyes.

Then, when he saw it, he froze. He felt his legs give out and fell to the ground. "G-Gascon," he breathed when he saw the silent apparition of the thief prince, a concerned look on his ghostly face. He seemed to chuckle and shake his head at the overreaction. He raised a finger and drew a symbol: Spirit Medium.

"Why are you here," Josephine asked, stepping forward. "What is it that you want," she wondered. She gasped and threw her hands to her mouth. "Have we wronged you in some way?" She stepped forward, a regretful and apologetic expression gracing her features. "If this is about Lynnea destroying your inventions, we'll have her stop immediately and apologize!"

He seemed to blink in confusion with a raised eyebrow. He leaned back and silently laughed at the notion with his arms crossed. He shook his head when he was through, the smirk remaining on his face. He drew the symbol again, glancing at Marcassin and holding out a hand to the side as he patiently waited for the current emperor to comply.

"My dear, he seems to want you to cast a spell," she translated as she glanced back at her still perplexed husband.

"I… I know." He looked up at the specter. He was in the form he had found him in on that fateful day, though his clothes had no indication of the wound that had killed him. He lifted himself off of the ground and wobbled, his knees still weak from the shock. Josephine caught him, and he leaned against her for a moment. Once he was sure he could support himself, he stood up straight and he reached for his wand. He drew the rune that Gascon had requested.

The ghost glowed, and he seemed to relish in the light of the spell. They could finally hear him. He sighed with relief and bowed his head reflexively, though in gratitude. "Finally. That's so much better than being silent all the time," he complained, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Brother… Gascon," Marcassin breathed, stepping forward to look at him. "I've missed you."

The former ambassador put a hand on his hip and tilted his head at the sage knowingly. "I know. You didn't get the chance to properly say goodbye, either."

"So, this is…," he deduced, knowing the answer.

The older man looked at the tomb with his formal name engraved on it. "Yeah. That's why I came back- unfinished business and all that." He smirked at his younger brother. "You'll see me and father again sometime- that I can definitely promise you. Just take care of yourself, alright?" He cast a knowing grin at the sage. "I'm sure you'll take care of Hamelin, too, while you're at it." He shrugged confidently.

He locked eyes with the dead man's. "Brother. You should see Lynnea since you're here." He stepped forward, his hands clasped in front of his chest. "Please! She needs to know-"

Gascon scoffed and rolled his eyes. "She already knows plenty! I've given her all the tools she needs." He shook his head again and crossed his arms. "I just came back for you. I came back to say goodbye." He sighed and looked down with a finger pressed to his chin, the gears in his head turning once again. "Though…," he began, looking from side to side. "I suppose there's one thing I could say, a suggestion that would help you reach her better."

The two of them eagerly leaned forward to hear what he had to say. Taken aback by their desperation, he leaned back and put his hands up. "Hey, it's not like it's the solution to all your problems!" He relaxed and with a fond smile he imparted a tip: "Just support her. It's as simple as that. That's what you should have been doing in the first place, mind you." He crossed his arms and glared at the two of them. "What happened, anyway? According to her, you lot forgot the rare chance that she wouldn't have all the power of a Great Sage." He tapped his foot and focused more on Marcassin.

The younger brother looked guiltily down. "She wouldn't stop thinking about her next inventions. When she couldn't use healing magic, we believed she just wasn't trying hard enough." His eyes narrowed and he nervously fiddled with the hem of his tunic, well aware of his mistaken assumption. "I told her she needed to try harder, that she wouldn't become a sage if she continued to be distracted by such fantasies." He sighed regretfully. "We didn't realize that she couldn't use healing magic." He shook his head. "Regardless, she seemed so unfocused in her magic studies that confronted her about it."

"She… kind of blew up," Josephine explained with a saddened smile. "She somehow got it in her head that if she couldn't be a sage, she could at least be a thief." She shook her head. "Then we tried to tell her that wasn't the answer either but…"

"And she took that personally, did she," Gascon finished. He sighed and shook his head with a smirk. "Ah, the teenage years-," he reminisced. "Misunderstandings and rebellions." He looked at his younger brother, placing a hand on his right hip and swaying to that side. "Be thankful I found her. She really _would_ have ended up like me."

"I started to kind of resent you, actually," the sage revealed, looking off to the side. He rung his fingers idly, nervously. "For telling her those stories. I don't think she would have had a reason to leave." He looked up and saw the regretful expression, the unsure frown and the sorrowful look in his brother's eyes. Seeing that, Marcassin cast a reassuring smile. "You made her stronger, though. You should have seen the fight she put up earlier, defending her cause! She really believed that you intended for her to build that arm at the cost of memorabilia. If it had been at any other time before, she would have backed down."

Josephine looked down in thought as he said that. "You're not angry about her doing that. Why," she asked Gascon.

He smiled wisely as he looked at his sister in law. "Because, knowing Lynnea, there will be _better_ ones. They can be replaced. Hell, I stopped caring about those things decades ago!" He held out a hand and grinned. "The way I see it: their better off being tools for the future than useless keepsakes. It would be similar to a king not using the land around him just because it was the property of the king before him." He glanced at his brother. "Am I right, Marcassin?"

The emperor looked up and met his brother's eyes. He nodded, smiling at the reminder. "Yes, Gascon." It was a shame his elder brother had no magic- wisdom such as that would have made him an excellent Great Sage.

The empress walked forward and wrapped an arm around her husband's shoulder. She looked up at her deceased brother in law. "Thank you, Gascon, for inspiring Lynnea. For guiding her, not only back to us, but back in the right direction," she said softly, smiling at the apparition. "And thank you, for allowing us to let go."

He smiled gratefully and bowed to them both with his right hand over his chest. "It has been an honor to serve you both, your majesties." He stood up straight and nodded at them both with a proud and fulfilled smile. He lowered his hand and gave them the Hamelin salute with his right hand at chest height and his palm facing the floor. "Goodbye, Marcassin, Josephine…" He relaxed and let his right-hand fall to his side. As he began to fade from view, he smirked and winked at the couple. _"My beloved brother and sister."_

* * *

Marcassin sat up, bolting from the mattress. A cold sweat ran across his brow and down his back. He looked over at his wife who slept soundly beside him, her hands tangled in the sheets in front of her and her legs bent. She seemed at peace, unaware of the vivid dream he had just endured.

He gripped the area just over his heart. He _had_ visited him not long after his quarrel with Lynnea. He remembered just standing there in front of his tomb in silent thought. He carried on a conversation- or perhaps a prayer- with his elder brother in his head. He lamented and regretted his tone. He never said a word, though.

He wasn't coming back. Not even as a ghost.

It was so strong. It felt real.

He clawed at his chest. He gripped the blanket next to him. He let out a sharp, pained wail followed by silent sobs.

Josephine woke up and she immediately sat up when she saw his condition. "M-Marcassin," she softly stammered. He just shook his head and continued to look down. She carefully scooted closer to the distraught sage. She wrapped her arms around him. "What is it? What nightmare caused this?"

He continued to tremble and shake. He lifted a hand and gripped the arm in front of his chest.

She rested her head on his shoulder. "It's alright. I've got you…," she comforted.

He started to bawl and he clutched her left arm tighter. He wanted to see him again. One last time. And her- just saying those words, words that he often heard his older brother say to ease him- pushed him over.

It was like that for a while. She held him as he wept.

Finally, he calmed down. His left hand fell slack but stayed in place on her arm.

"He's… gone," he stated. He looked over to Josephine who had lifted her head. "Gascon's gone."

She nodded silently, understandingly.

He looked up at the aunting of their bed, searching it. He whispered something. It was low, almost breath like. Though she couldn't hear, she had a feeling. It was in the way his chest reverberated.

 _"Goodbye, Gascon. I promise we'll meet again."_


	11. Understanding

She walked down to the palace dungeon cloaked in a scarlet cloth. No one could know that she went to visit the lone prisoner that was kept there. When the guards asked her name and purpose, she looked up from underneath the hood. When they hesitated, she ordered their silence, to not say a word of her presence. She had to know why- that was all. Why did Gascon have to die? Why did he kill him?

Who was this man to take her uncle's life?

She smirked when they let her through. Before she knew it she was in front of the guard who wasted away in his cell. He leaned against the wall and a hand lazily slung onto the side of the mattress of the small prison cot. He looked up, his eyes tired from his own guilt, his own internal battles of his demons.

To Amos, this was karmic retribution. All his reckless endeavors, all his half-cocked pursuit of criminals under the guise of the law, inevitably ruining their lives, were coming back with one final strike. He was already deemed for execution- the emperor told him himself. He had killed someone with the same level of renown and honor as a Great Sage. He had killed someone of royal blood. It wouldn't matter if he went free.

The moment someone found out about his dark deed, someone would lash out in some way. No one would do business with him. No one would trust him. He'd turn to the very life he spent most of his existence quelling, a life of thievery and crime. And while he tried to survive, there would be a sword hanging over his head: who would strike him down for the life he had taken? Would it be his own hands that ended him?

Better an execution than a miserable life, he thought. In the beginning, he had wanted to die a hero or be hailed as one by his fellow citizens of Al Mamoon, to pay the city back for giving him a future after the loss of his home. He knew he wasn't the all-powerful savior, the pure-hearted one, but he could at least try his part in keeping the peace of his own small part of the world. In the end, he was the worst of thieves.

"Why did you do it," she asked him, lowering the hood. She looked down at him with a somber face, a face that had grieved and simply wanted answers for it. "What was the point?"

He sighed. "While I accept my fate, I will make one thing clear to you, your highness." He withdrew his hand from the bed and sat up to have a more proper conversation with his visitor. "My intent was never to kill. I did not expect him to run in front of my blade." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "Make no mistake, if he had attempted to actually fight me, I would have had to end his life for my protection."

She scowled at him and crossed her arms. "If your intentions were so pure then why did you raise your sword against me?"

Chuckling could be heard from inside the cage. He leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. "You were spared by your own bounty description. You were wanted alive." He smirked and his shoulders shook once more as he silently laughed to himself. "Such a high bounty for petty thievery, now that I think about it! What on earth could you have stolen for you to be worth so many guilders?" He shook his head as he grinned up at the girl. "Now I believe who put that bounty out in the first place was someone much closer to home for you."

She froze for a moment and started to consider his words. "You- you believe that my father put a bounty on my head? That's absurd!"

"You were wanted _alive_ for an unusually high price." He shifted again to stretch his left leg. "I've had time to think this over, but it seems that your dear father was rather desperate to get you back." He tapped on the ground idly with a finger. He smirked cheekily at her. "I must give the Great Sage some credit- he lives like a king but he knows how to manipulate a system for his own gain."

She rushed to the bars and gripped them. "He wouldn't do something like that! It would have been too much of a risk," she roared. She stared him down. She growled aggravatedly and turned around to face the empty cell behind her, huffing adamantly. "My father wouldn't do that," she said lowly.

"Would it surprise you if he did?" He leaned forward and got on his hands and knees. He crawled closer to the bars and sat up again, staring up at her from his place on the ground. "My dear girl, he is a Great Sage- a wise man. Once captive in Al Mamoon's prisons, he could arrange any sort of negotiations for your return."

"Are you trying to sabotage what's left of our relationship," she accused him as she turned to face his cell.

He shook his head with a wry smile. "I am simply proposing a possibility to you. Whatever you deem it as is up to you." He nodded once more. "He only sent your uncle out as a last resort- realizing that 'alive' was too broad a requirement. You could be maimed and abused, disabled in any and every way and still be 'alive'." He looked down again, finding himself admiring the wisdom and confidence of his former prey's father only to realize the hole in the sage's rationale. "He knew he'd protect you. He didn't account for the risk that entailed."

"Then why didn't he just call off the bounty," she shot back. "If he really did put the bounty up in the first place, he could have called it off or changed the requirements."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Feh! It would have been too late! People wouldn't realize the bounty had been changed." He reached up and gripped the bars as he peered through them. "Listen to me, girl- no man goes through that kind of trouble, nor lets a blade run through their chest if your life were not precious," he lectured. "Whatever you may think of me, I ask you to take this to heart: you are lucky to have such people on your side. Do not squander that as I have!"

She reached over to her left arm, the wooden limb still in use with a temporary cushion in place for comfort and rubbed it. She had taken a break, her curiosity had gotten the best of her. "Why do you care what I do with my life?" She looked into the former guard's eyes. She found herself kneeling to his level. "You only saw me as a bounty, a low life when you chased me down in Al Mamoon. Now that you know who I really am, you suddenly care?" She tilted her head at him curiously. "You would have cut off my hands and fed me to the dogs for a small fortune! Now you worry about my well being?"

He frowned and sighed as he leaned his head back. "I have only ever once been on this side of the law before, your highness," he informed her as he leaned his head forward again. "I have seen and fought criminals. I have studied their ways and even their motives. I have had to _kill_ to save myself from harm, all in the light and protection of being a guard, an agent of the law." He exhaled heavily. "I am no longer protected by my title and because of that, I find myself here, on the same level as you…" He nodded as he slowly addressed her, "A thief."

Her gaze went steely as she stared at him. "I'm not a murderer, though. I never once knowingly killed a man."

His eyes narrowed and he frowned at her argument. "A murderer is a thief of life. In a sense, I have stolen the legendary master thief's life from you and the world," he sneered. "We _are_ similar in that one fact, girl. We've both stolen, only that I've stolen something far more precious." He lowered his hands from the bars. "Believe me, I'd give it back in full if I had the knowledge and power." He looked down and closed his eyes. "This execution is the only way I can pay. A life for a life, though it will not bring back the dead."

"It won't, but it's what has to be done," she answered back, her voice hollow as her mouth went dry.

They both sat in silence, the princess watching the former guard of Al Mamoon and the guard himself contemplating the meaning of his own death.

"Do- do you have any family," she mumbled to him. She rubbed her left arm again as she looked away.

He looked up suddenly. "'Family'," he repeated as he leaned toward her from behind the bars. "Why do you ask?"

"I nearly died once before- when I lost my arm. I kept going in and out of consciousness and dreaming of home- of my uncle and my father." She chuckled sadly. "My mother wasn't really in them- probably because the best parts of my childhood were the times when Uncle Gascon came to visit. She was always so busy, then." She shook her head, realizing she had gone off on a tangent. "I missed home. I didn't think I'd get to see it again." She gripped the wooden limb. "Then Swaine… he nursed me back to health just because he felt sorry for me. He didn't even realize who I was until a day later." She looked up at the guard. "What I'm saying is, does anyone care for you? Do you have anyone you'd want to come and see you before your execution?"

There was the still silence of shock, contemplation then… laughter. It started low and slowly rose to a loud guffaw. "I move you so," he asked her in a shout. "Such sympathy for a murderer, it's both heartwarming and unorthodox!" He sighed as he relaxed. "No, I do not have any family. I was an only child and so were my mother and father. My grandparents and my parents- all of them- are dead. Our home burned to the ground when I was a child and I was taken in by the state and trained to become a guard." He laughed again. "You could say it's similar to how you've been trained to become a sage."

"We are not any way the same, might I remind you," she said to him, raising an eyebrow. "Your life sucked, that's all good to know, but we are not the same!"

"I never said we were." He scoffed. "Though I _do_ know what it's like to be mortally wounded and fear for my own life."

She hummed curiously as she crawled closer to his cell. She sat in front of him with her legs crossed and leaned forward, intrigued by his story. "How so?"

He tapped his left eye patch and scar. "I lost this trying- or I guess now that I look back at it, rushing- to end a criminal syndicate brewing in Al Mamoon. I and a band of guards rushed in. While I was fighting, one of the syndicate members tried their hand in killing me." He began to rub the old wound, the ache of the memory returning to it. "Mortally wounded, I hid and let my comrades take the rest." He sighed gruffly. "This is not my first run-in with a death sentence, though I fear there will be no sparing me this time."

She crossed her arms and looked down. "Cowardice- even here, for a guard, especially a royal one- is punishable by death," she recited from her royal tutelage. She glanced up and nodded shortly. "How'd you escape last time?"

"Rashaad, the Great Sage of Al Mamoon, vouched for me. In exchange, I was relieved of duty and the status of 'Royal Guard'," he recounted. He let out another sigh, this time shakily. "This time, no one, not even Rashaad will be able to save me. The crime I've committed is far too grievous." He bowed his head. "I've wept for your family, for the life I've taken," he admitted.

"Please," she shot back, rolling her head. "You wept for your guilt!"

His head snapped up. "That may as well be true, but nothing can change the fact that the blood that stained my blade was that of an honorable man's." He leaned forward. "Even as a man of the law, I see it for what it is- a leash so that we may do no wrong, so the safety of others can be put first." He nodded affirmatively. "While he may have been wrong to protect you legally, he was right putting _your_ safety first." His eyes narrowed from the darkness of his prison. "Such an act must be acknowledged and its actor mourned."

"He _was_ mourned," she corrected him. "By people who aren't callous enough to kill for greed." She scowled at the guard.

He slammed his hand down on the hard stone floor. "I did not pursue you out of _greed_! I simply saw a criminal that had to be brought to justice. At the same time, I was overzealous in the heat of the chase and my judgment was clouded," he boomed. He leaned forward and gripped the bars. "If people stand in the way, prepared to fight, what happens to them should have well crossed their mind."

"So you just kill them," she snapped. She snorted and tilted her chin up at him. "Now we see your true colors!"

He shook his head. "Do not assume such things, your highness. I attempt to disarm them. I've been unsuccessful doing so, so I have had to kill." He huffed and crossed his arms. "My first instinct is not always to kill," he repeated himself.

She lowered her head but still had a disbelieving air around her. "And Swaine? Just an unfortunate casualty," she spat.

He bared his teeth and snarled, "He knew the risks. He knew that there was a slim chance that he would live. A man who has lived through battling two powerful entities would have to be a fool not to see those odds." He lowered his hands and rested them in the space between his legs. "And he took the chance…," he said, his voice low. He looked up at the girl. "He took the chance just to save you," he whispered. "He did what I could never do and I admire that greatly."

Her gaze softened and she tilted her head to analyze him. He suddenly seemed less of a murderer and more human as his eyes fell on a random stone brick. He raised a hand to rub his shoulder idly while the other was perched on his leg. "What is your dream, girl," he asked her. "You had a future laid out _for_ you, here. You wouldn't try to throw it away if you didn't have other plans."

"Originally… I wanted to be like my uncle." She rubbed her arm again. She looked at it and smiled. "The problem with that is: I've realized I never needed to try. His skills as an inventor come naturally to me. Another issue with that is that there can never be anyone exactly like him again. There will always be 'just the one', as he put it." She smirked. "I want to make a difference in this world." She took out her old wand and looked at it. "I guess I can start by filling my role."

"As a princess," he clarified, looking up at the girl dressed in a gold gilded magenta trench coat and burgundy cloak. He studied her for a moment. "How will you do that?"

She shrugged with a grin. "I don't really know. I guess I'll just improvise." She giggled as she realized the oddity of the connection she was making. They were talking casually despite his crime against her family. Perhaps he was more than just a heartless killer. Having time to process Gascon's death and really thinking about how to approach her enemy had given her a much more levelheaded approach.

"You will need guidance," he stated. He shook his head and looked down with a slightly wounded look. "You'll have plenty in the form of advisors and loved ones." He smiled sadly at the teen. "As a murderer, I know my words do not mean much…" He gave what he could muster of a bow. "I wish you luck."

She sat in slight awe. Leaning forward, she recognized something in his voice. Was it desperation…? "You don't want to die alone," she observed.

"But we all do," he returned wisely.

"Even so, it's better to have someone by your side at the end." She smiled gently at him.

He released a forlorn sigh and closed his eyes. "It is part of the price I pay for my actions. I should have no comfort." He opened his eyes and stared slightly down at her. "Consider yourself fortunate- you are not in my place."

She reached through the bars with both hands open towards him and the ceiling and stared into her former enemy's eyes. His eyes widened as he looked down at the mismatched set of hands. "I propose to be by your side. I'm just as guilty as you."

"So you believe that because you left here that you had a hand in his death." He smirked. "You couldn't have possibly known it would come to this, girl." He looked down at her hands, one wooden the other flesh and blood. "Instead of self-pity and pitying your offender, you should, perhaps, look at what you've _gained_ from this entire experience. Surely you've grown." When she looked down he followed her gaze. "The expense was great- almost too great- but your future was apparently worth it to the man who paid with his."

She sat in thought and let his words sink in. She still offered her hands to him in an effort of recompense. "Please… Just let me take some of the responsibility." She looked down and swallowed. Words she never thought she'd utter to her hero's reaper came tumbling out, "I believe you- that you didn't mean to kill him." Her eyes darted up and she stared at the destitute former Al Mamoon guard. "This is the only way I can pay. So please…" She shook her hands in emphasis. "Just let me be there for you when no one else will!"

"How? How is it that you treat me so well?" He leaned forward and placed his hands on the cold hard ground. "I _murdered_ someone close to you. Months ago, you attempted to kill me for it." He reached up and rubbed his forehead, recalling the cold feel of the weapon when she pressed the muzzle of the gun into him. He looked at the much calmer more collected girl- the same girl who had threatened to execute him four months prematurely. "Your father, whom I've always pegged as a man of understanding and reason, with a cold menacing stare, handed me my sentence a few days ago. As he told me about it, he looked down on me as scum." He raised an eyebrow. "The White Witch was hardly an innocent person, yet Nazcaa has been trading with your people for over two decades."

"You made it personal. The White Witch, according to Uncle Gascon, suffered an immense loss. While her actions weren't justified, she wasn't mentally sound." She looked down. "I can understand how come, now. I can also understand why my father's heart has gone cold towards you, why he wants you dead." She looked up again. "It's the same reason my uncle went to face the Dark Djinn- to avenge the life you've taken." She shook her hands again. "I want to at least give you a chance to be treated humanely. You are a wise and just man, similar to my father. I've learned that much from just talking to you." She spoke softly, sincerely. "Your intent was to hunt down a criminal, but because of my uncle's heroic deeds, you became the worst possible kind." She stared intently at the disheveled man. "You deserve better… And what kind of princess would I be to let a lonely soul suffer, hmm?" She smiled at him.

He stared down at the hands. It would be a public execution. The entire town would be calling for blood and treat him as a monster. Not a soul would reach out to him like she was doing, here. He supposed, in that sea of loneliness and hatred that would surround him during his final moments that a kind face, just a single sympathetic soul would ease his mind as he accepted his fate. He nodded and took her hands. He gripped them and looked down. "Thank you, your majesty, for your mercy."

She tilted her head as she studied him. "Lynnea."

He looked up. "Your name?" She nodded. He returned her smile and for the first time in months, he felt at ease. "Amos. Remember me as Amos."


	12. Future

As she returned to her uncle's room, eager to continue building and modifying her new arm to her liking, a memory played out in her mind. She walked through the castle at a slow pace as she compared it with the discussion with Amos just moments before. Her father would treat her as the next in line, the future empress of Hamelin. There wasn't always time for simple bonding moments between running the empire and training, so deep conversations where she could just talk without being lectured were of limited supply.

Those kinds of conversations came from Gascon, oddly. Sometimes he didn't say a word until he had all the pieces. Sometimes he'd halt her in her tracks when something seemed amiss about the scenario and propose a different rationale. Other times, they would go back and forth, answering questions and simply talking about similar experiences. Often, she'd learn so much more than she ever did with her father.

She recalled a time, though, when he wasn't as lively- a sole night when something had troubled the ever-observant, ever secretive, and ever so clever ambassador. She was twelve at the time and had awoken from a nightmare. She remembered going to the very room she now used to prepare her new limb with tired eyes. She remembered the robot, wooden arms bolted on, dangling from her left hand and the other hand rubbing an eye.

She had opened the door to find him hunched over with both hands to his face. He groaned and ran his hands through his dark hair with his eyes shut tight. He gripped this head, unaware of the hall light entering the room or the now overtly concerned little girl staring at him.

"U-Uncle Gascon…," she nervously asked, unsure if she should bother the troubled man. She walked up to him and continued to watch him. He seemed unaware of her presence.

He shook his head, wincing. His breaths were quick and shallow and he gritted his teeth. "Damn it all...," he hissed. "I… Why this again," he complained as his hunch increased.

She remembered being worried for him. She had never seen him like this. She wondered if anyone, even her father, had seen him like this. She hopped onto the bed and sat next to him. She originally wanted him to comfort her, but the nightmare seemed so insignificant compared to the pain he was experiencing.

She just sat there and watched him. She wondered what she should do. "Are- are you okay," she inquired. She reached up and placed a hand on his back, close to his left shoulder blade. "Uncle Gascon?"

 _"Uncle Gascon,"_ the words seemed to resonate in his mind. The flashes of all the times he and the others had nearly died seemed to fade. Her small comforting hand on his hunched back cut through the terror he felt. He relaxed a little, the attack over.

They happened every time he came home and, rarely, when he sat alone in a hotel room. It would start sometimes as a delayed response to reminiscing about old battles with Marcassin. Eventually, it would lead to recalling the fight with the Dark Djinn or even the Zodiarchs. It was hardly the guardians, Nightmares, or major threatening creatures that came to mind, though some were in there- especially the other corrupted rulers and that horrid pig tank. Sometimes it was just because something reminded him of those battles, be it his own gun or the dusty model hog tank that sat in the corner of his room.

His head lurched up and his hands let go but still remained near the top of his head. He peered past his arms at his niece. He looked at her desperate and confused face and felt a pang of guilt. She saw. She saw him break. He never wanted her to see this. This was an issue for the thief, not Gascon, not her uncle. "H-hey," he greeted, his voice still trembling, but soft.

"Uncle Gascon," she asked with a tilt of the head. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

He chuckled as he lowered his hands and straightened up a little. He smiled and cleared his throat as he reached out and placed a gentle hand on her head. "I'm… I'm fine… I just…" How could he put it in a way she wouldn't know? "You know how sometimes you have bad dreams or… disappointing thoughts?"

She nodded. "Mhmm," she answered. "They always make me kind of sad."

"Well… I sometimes have both." He looked down and rung his hands. "And… well… they really frighten me."

She looked down as she thought about it. She looked back up at her uncle and hugged him. "It's alright to be scared," she said, gripping his red tunic. "Swaine was always scared," she started to say, unaware of the secret life he bore. "But he still fought! He was brave!" She beamed at him. "If he can be brave, you can be brave!"

He stared down at her and blinked for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. She was cheering him on. He rubbed her head thoughtfully and smiled at her. "You're just like your mother, you: kind and sympathetic."

"What about father? Am I like father," she remembered asking him curiously.

He laughed again and wrapped his arms around her. "You're intelligent, I'll give you that!" She giggled and he looked up at the aunting of his old bed. "No, I take it back…" He smirked. "You're not like anyone else."

"Huh? But you just said-," she squeaked, her hair suddenly being messed with by the man.

"Well, you're a princess and _my_ niece! Who else has that," he questioned her. "And a sweet one, too, being concerned like you were."

Concerned… concern was what that was then in the dungeon. Had she always been so selfless, so kind? Even when it seemed like someone could lash out suddenly, as her uncle seemed to possibly be capable of back then to her unknowing self, she reached out with a comforting hand.

Even to a man who had murdered a dear family member. Perhaps… she was truly like her mother.

She shook her head as she approached the door. That wasn't it… Her mother was also firm and knew what she wanted with her life when she was her age. Even now, even after accepting the inevitable position that she was a porcine princess, she still didn't have the slightest clue as to _how_ to fill it. She walked into her uncle's former bedroom and looked inside. The memory flashed in her head of the episode. She could almost hear the sound of his panicked breaths as he tried to cope with whatever horrors that had temporarily plagued him.

He wasn't there. Instead, dismantled gadgets were strewn across the floor of the room and a skeleton of what would replace the old wooden arm laid on the work desk. Off to the side, the elder master thief's former familiars were sleeping in a pile. She had cast a sleeping spell on them, so they wouldn't follow her. Who knows what they could have done if they knew?

She smirked at the odd little group, both the jellyfish-like nymph and the lemur sleeping on the back of a giant furry snow creature. She sighed in amusement and walked over to the desk, sitting herself down to begin working on it once more.

She had begun to add features that even Swaine hadn't thought to incorporate in the original design. She tossed the idea of another hand attachment aside and made it so claws could retract and expose themselves if she needed from the tips of the fingers. She redrew and added to the design on a piece of thin paper, thin enough to see the original through it. She took out her pickpocketing gun and looked at it thoughtfully then back at the hand. Perhaps there was something that could be done with it.

She didn't need two pickpocketing guns anyway. Her version, as handy as it had been, would never match up to the Cad's Cannon bequeathed to her. She grinned as she set to work dismantling her gun, pulling piece by piece out and laying it out on the table. She looked at the parts and back at the hand. She drew another addition to the blueprints- her hand could also be used as a grappling hook. She inscribed a Fireball rune into the shaft of the arm as a simple means of firing her hand at an object. The hand itself would have a rod and spring mechanism installed to open and close when she needed to grab something far away.

Much of her gun's parts, including the internal mechanism for the claw, were cannibalized. She shrugged at that. She could build a new gun. Since her hand was essentially a metal claw, she added pads for comfort on the tips of her fingers and joints of her palm. On the back of the hand, Puppet String was inscribed into it so she could control it when launched. She would have to relinquish control of her arm and have to brace it with her left to individually control it. She could only focus so many spells at a time, after all.

She wondered if there were more spells she could incorporate- perhaps Vanish? Perhaps the spell Mimic would also be useful? There was also Spring Lock or even Fuse. She shook her head finally. The more spells she added to her invention, the harder it would be to control. She could always use it like a wand, anyway. Once all of the internal mechanisms for the arm were put in place and completely installed, she carefully picked it up to look at it.

She placed the arm down and rubbed her left shoulder She needed something snug and permanent to comfortably maneuver her limb. She stood and walked over to the wardrobe for supplies. On top of everything else, she'd need to make a new harness, one preferably not made out of the gold fancy belts she saw. She snapped her fingers in defeat, realizing the inevitability of needing help. She'd have to go to her father and request a vest for her invention.

She groaned and sat back down and ran her hands through her hair. She got back up and picked up the long ruined inventions and piled them on the table. She took any rubber pieces she found and put them in a separate pile. "Fuse," she called when she was sure she had all the gaskets and valves she needed. A singular black concaved rubber plate formed from under her left hand and the fading rune she had drawn. She fastened it to the end that would connect to her shoulder, using Fuse once again.

She sighed out of exhaustion as she slumped over the desk. She reached for the tools and began to manipulate the metal pieces into the main body of her arm. She fused and bolted parts together even creating a small compartment for small maintenance tools to be latched into and held if something went wrong. Finally, it was finished.

She raised her left hand and began to chant, infusing the last bit of magic to solidify her bond with her new limb, _"Give me the strength to forge a better future and bring hope to my people, however that may be."_ She smiled as the words seared and engraved themselves into the metal plating. She looked at the original plans and nodded. "It's done, Uncle Gascon." She lifted the prosthetic. "Now to see how it works, hmm?"

All that remained was getting an old piece of armor to use as a more comfortable harness. She just needed the chest plate to manipulate- the rest could be scrapped. For now, she simply dismantled the old harness and reapplied it to the new arm. The belts were beginning to wear thin, but it would do for the time being.

She strapped it on and flexed her new arm. It seemed to move smoother and easier than the old wooden one. She thought again about using an armor chest plate and scrapped the idea entirely. There were still leftovers from the old devices she and the team of familiars had scrapped. As she set to work creating what would be a more secure harness, she realized: perhaps she _was_ truly like her uncle, practical and inventive.

She chuckled at the lie. Never. There would never be another person like him- like Gascon, Ambassador of Hamelin, secretly the legendary master thief, Swaine: hero of the world. There would never be a soul like him. No one could ever be exactly alike, anyway. Similar? Yes. They had some similarities. As she laid the strips of metal out, now with curious alert familiars watching her from both behind and to the side, she felt a pang of pride in her work. As she cast Fuse on the pieces to form the front of the chest plate and set it aside to make the back, she found herself entranced by her own abilities, her improved skills.

She couldn't heal wounds but she could create life-changing devices, devices that could save lives. She would never be a sage- she didn't want to be- but she could use what magic she had to build fantastic, wonderful things! As she took an old shirt from the cabinet and cut what she needed, as she found bolts and used Burden enhanced pins to make holes in the metal, she finished her masterpiece- the modified arm based on a schematic given to her by her late uncle- the Arm of Gascon.

She unhooked the harness and removed her shirt, facing away from the familiars. Even if they were, at this point, just beasts, it didn't feel right with them watching. She grabbed the arm with her right hand and held it to her side.

She laid on the bed- again, facing away from the group- after wiping the dust away to pin her left arm to her side, allowing her to control it as she broke down the old harness. She used one of the fancy belts to replace the old worn out ones and used the metal clasps to make hoops using magic once again. She used the newly equipped claws to cut the belts to size since they didn't need to be as long.

She sat up and rotated her arm again, smiling at her handiwork. She leaned toward the group with a smile. "I'm going to show this off to father. Wish me luck," she told them. They nodded in unison after exchanged glances. Seeing this odd behavior she raised an eyebrow at them. "What?"

Then, one at a time, they returned to the pendant around her neck, Squishy being the last to leave. It looked up at her and whined. It approached her and rubbed her new arm. She petted the papa sasquash looked back at it. "You can't leave me alone, can you?" It grunted and grinned toothily. She giggled and continued to smile at the overprotective familiar. "Fine. You can be my familiar, Squishy."

It blinked as a slightly shocked look crossed its face. It grunted and lifted its arms and pinned her to the bed excitedly. It nuzzled her face before licking her. "Agh! Squishy! Stop!" At the word, it halted and stepped back the faint green aura replaced with a vibrant purple one. It looked up at her curiously. She giggled and continued to grin at her new partner. She looked down at the pendant around her neck then back at the yeti. "We'll find a home for them, later," she reassured it. She patted her chest. "For now, up you go, boy!" It complied. It backed away, shook its bottom and bounded toward her, turning into a ball of light. She straightened up as she felt the protective warmth of the new familiar radiate in her chest. _Welcome home, Squishy._ She thought as her right hand lightly hovered over her heart. She threw her shirt over the harness and picked up her coat. She looked over at the head of the bed where the pillows lay in thought.

Who was her father to take this man's life? Didn't he say he didn't want more blood to be spilled? She got up and walked out of the room. She wanted to ask her mother why. She would know.

Josephine sat in the throne room reading about new technology recently produced by one of the workshops. Marcassin had left to handle some urgent business to their daughter's luck. She looked up when she heard her child call her. "Yes, Lynnea?"

She stood in front of her. She seemed nervous as she idly rubbed the arm of her coat. "Why is he doing this? Why is he executing that man? It doesn't make any sense."

The empress gaped up at her. Her eyes shifted to the side and then back to her daughter. "He never said a word to me." She breathed heavily and looked down. "Though, it may be the only punishment he can prescribe, dear."

She leaned forward and threw her left hand out to the side. "He said no more blood had to be spilled! What happened to that," she contested.

Josephine stared again at Lynnea as she studied her. Suddenly, she seemed conflicted about the execution of a murderer. "Are you… are you defending him," she interrogated her, placing the documents aside to look closer at the teenager before her.

"I'm simply saying father's actions are suddenly contradicting his words!" She began to pace. "I know he's guilty, but isn't there something other than death? It doesn't matter if he's beheaded, hung, or electrocuted, it's still blood being spilled!" She stopped in the middle of the room and stood patiently to hear her mother's thoughts.

"Lynnea," she began. "That man's life would be forfeit. Either way, he's a dead man." She looked down sadly. "Even if it might just be so he can move on, that man in the dungeon would have no future. People would end his life and then it would be yet another execution- one after another!" She stood and held her hands out. "I can see why he made that decision. It would be kind to end him as a punishment. It's the only option that satisfies everyone."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Her mother, known for her kindness in all of the empire, was condoning death. "But it was an accident-," she started to say. She stopped when she considered her next words. Either way, Amos had raised arms against the crown, even if she was under a false name. "There has to be another way, mother!" She stepped forward. "We can be so much better than this! Don't you agree?!"

She could only frown regretfully at her daughter. She was truly like her father. She was seeking a just, peaceful way to confront this. Unfortunately, the only option was the violent, sudden end of a perpetrator's life. "I'm sorry… There's nothing that can be done," she answered softly, shaking her head slowly.

Lynnea just stared blankly back at her mother. She bowed her head and began to leave. "Mother," she whispered. She looked over her shoulder and saw she still had the older woman's attention. "Tell father that I'm sorry if I've destroyed anything sentimental creating my arm." She raised her left hand as she glanced down at it. She smiled as she studied it. "Whatever it was, I'll make sure that it serves me well." She finally turned her head to face the door. She walked out and left.

She headed to her room in thought. There was a way to save this person. Her father couldn't let go of the deed he had done- he was blinded by grief. If her uncle could go from prince, to thief, to hero, and then to an _ambassador_ , then surely there was a much better way for that former guard to atone for his crimes. If Cassiopeia, the ruler of Nazcaa, the former White Witch could turn a new leaf, then the man down in the dungeon deserved at least a second chance.

It was during these thoughts that an opposing argument presented itself to her: Why was she trying so hard to save this murderer? She had every right to agree with her father, but she found herself trying to save his life!

Her view of the former guard had changed while talking to him. She saw something familiar in this man. As she sat on her bed, she thought hard about it. He explained clearly, rationally what his motives were, as misguided as he was. It was strange, but she thought she sensed some of the same hopelessness her uncle had on that night when she was twelve. She saw a wise man and a former hero- though many wouldn't admit it- deemed a criminal. Paradoxically, the man she had looked up to all those years was a criminal turned a wise man and a hero.

He could teach her so many things- so many things that neither her mother or her father could. His life still had a purpose and they would throw it away with him just as ready to let them.

There was a way. It meant going against her father, her legitimacy, but there _was_ a way. This was the only way she knew she could prove herself. She would be a hero- even if it was the least likely person anyone would want to save.

* * *

The day of the execution: it was a public affair. Surprisingly, the process was simple. He was to be hung. Near to the wooden gallows, his hand on the lever to open the trap door, was a man in an all black hog armor, effectively concealing his face. Standing next to him was the Great Sage of Hamelin with death rights written on a piece of parchment.

Marcassin read the charges and looked out to the rest of the plaza at all the citizens who scowled at the murderer from the stands of their homes and shops. He turned to face the former Al Mamoon soldier. "Do you have any last words?" He raised both eyebrows. "Wishes?"

Amos looked over at the emperor and back at the plaza. He closed his eyes. The princess lied to him. She wasn't there by his side as she had promised. He began to suspect a sick ploy. He sighed heavily and opened his eyes. A sympathetic soul? Who would sympathize with him? She must have taken great joy to build his hope up and watch it crumble there in the noose. He looked at the emperor. "I'm sorry… for your loss," he answered. He closed his eyes again and leaned his head back. He expected a sharp pain from his neck snapping and the sweet release of death.

The man in the hog armor tapped his fingers on the lever handle and looked at his superior for a signal. Marcassin seemed to hesitate for a moment at the convict's words before turning to the man and nodding.

Just before the executioner could end the former guard's life, a bullet shot the glove the soldier wore, causing him to suddenly release the lever. As the armored man hissed in pain and looked at his offended hand, another well-placed bullet darted through the rope and into the wood beam supporting the gallows. Wide-eyed, the prisoner looked up and noticed the burnt fibers where the rope had been cut in two.

"What," the sage snarled glaring at the incident and then the prisoner. Amos only shook his head in confusion. Before he could check the trajectory of the shot or the crowd, a brass mechanical hand suddenly latched itself to the top beam. A figure in a burgundy cloak followed suit, using the chords attached to the hand to propel her down. She held the arm to keep it steady the entire time and jerked it. The hand released its grip and shot back into the arm.

Tossing her hood down, she revealed herself, her short brown hair unmistakably worn by the only heir to the throne. She stared out at the crowd who now whispered in suspicion and awe. "I pardon this man," she declared as she held her left hand out to Amos.

The crowd went collectively silent then started to devolve into chaos. Some shouted obscenities, others cried for answers. Many, to her alarm, cried to end him anyway with magic. There were even a few who called for her execution as well.

"Silence yourselves," the great sage boomed, a rune for Mimic, of which the crowd seemed to distracted by their own protests to notice, fading. He turned to face his daughter with his teeth bared and his face red with anger. "What is the meaning of this, Lynnea?! This is treason!"

"Hang her," the several people in the crowd shouted. He ignored them- he had gone through all of that trouble just to bring her home. That was the last thing he wanted to do. She could make him absolutely furious, but he would never kill his own flesh and blood. Her and Josephine were all that remained and he'd cling to them with his dying breath.

She faced him, her determination unwavering. "We don't have to do this, father! This is senseless! What would your brother have to say about this," she argued. "There's good in him- we should try to give him a chance to right his wrongs _alive_!"

"Girl- don't," Amos intervened. "I- I can't live with the guilt. This _is_ the only way."

She turned to the convict. She only found defeated, lost eyes. "No… No, you're wrong!" She looked around her at the angry crowd, at her father, at the former guard. "You're all wrong!" She looked out at the crowd. "The White Witch from the legends- Cassiopeia- got a second chance and she did so many unforgivable things! You all gave her a second chance." She turned to face her father. "What makes this man any different?!"

"What makes you think you can overrule me? Have you lost your mind," Marcassin shouted.

She looked him over. "Have you lost yours, father?! You used to be more understanding than this!" She stepped back. "I'm using my power, as your heir. I want him pardoned and in exchange, made one of our servants!" She held her fists in front of her and shook them. "He'll have another life! He can start over!"

Amos looked between the two of them. His mouth hung open. Was this girl giving him a chance to start a-new? He knew what argument the ruler would pose: he would be a security risk, a _safety_ risk. He shook his head with a sad smirk. He'd never let go. He had to say, he admired her for trying. If only they had met under better circumstances.

"That is absurd!" He attempted to grab his daughter's arm, only for her to swiftly step back. He simply stood up straight and stared at her coldly. "Do you know what the difference is? Cassiopeia was unsound in mind- no matter her crimes, she was unaware of her actions. She was _cursed_!" He threw a hand towards the former guard. "This man could have stopped himself, but he didn't! He murdered Gascon! He tried to harm you!" His eyes widened and he pointed at Lynnea. "You wanted to kill him! Now you want to spare him," he interrogated incredulously. He stepped forward and held his hands out to either side with a large shrug. "What changed?!"

She looked up, her mouth set in a frown, her eyes focused. "I talked to him," she simply stated. "I just… talked to the man. All he seemed to want was to do what the sages have done for years, serve and protect." She shrugged. "He was just trying to protect himself in a fight against me- I drew my gun so he drew his sword. Then… Then Uncle Gascon stepped in the way to stop him." She looked down. "I'm just as responsible for his death, but this man took the fall." Her head snapped up to look at her father. "That's why I believe he should be given a second chance! He shouldn't have to die for my mistakes!" She stomped her foot. "No more blood! No one else should die because of me not taking responsibility!"

She threw off her cloak and coat and let it fall onto the ground, revealing the turquoise shirt underneath. "This is me- stepping out, taking on the role of the princess of Hamelin, using the power I have that's just been sitting there!" She raised her left hand and formed a fist. She stepped forward as she did so. "What good is it if I can't do anything to save a man from a needless death?! What good is this arm if I can't help one person see that they can turn themselves around and rebuild from their mistakes?!" Before her father could interrupt, she shot her left arm out towards Amos. "Pardon this man! Pardon this man, I say! I don't care if you have to have a guard on duty everywhere he goes, just do it!" She glared at Marcassin intently.

The sage looked down, frowning as he considered his daughter's words. He turned and looked out at the now silent crowd. "What do you say," he asked them. "Should I let him live," he gestured the former guard who simply observed the scene in front of him. He turned to his daughter. "Or should he be put to death," he spat, venomously eyeing her.

He raised his scepter. "Live," he stated, attempting to give her side a chance. Sadly, not many cheered. The life he had taken was too much. "Die," he said as he raised his wand again. The crowd went into an uproar and the sage turned to his daughter and the convict. He mouthed the words, "I'm sorry," to her and raised his wand.

"No," she whispered. Marcassin's head was low as he began to prepare a spell. He shook his head somberly.

She couldn't move… This was it, this was all she had. She was frozen in fear of the repercussions of pushing her father down. The spell could backfire on him and kill him instead. Even if it didn't, it would still probably hit the prisoner. There was nothing she could possibly do to save this man.

The convict glanced at her, a grateful smile on his lips. "You tried your best, your highness… Thank you," said Amos as he bowed his head with closed eyes, accepting his fate. She saw her father hesitate for a moment and look at the criminal. He sighed and continued to prepare his spell.

With a blast of light, it was over. The former guard of Al Mamoon slumped and then fell face first in front of the emperor, the princess, and the crowd. The citizens cheered, for a murderer of a legend had been vanquished. Not long after, they all began to return to their homes and businesses, the thirst for blood quenched and the balance seemingly restored. Swaine- or better put, Gascon- had been avenged.

Lynnea fell to her knees in front of Amos's body. She failed. She looked at her arm dejectedly. She couldn't do it. She couldn't even save one life. She was so wrapped up in her defeat that didn't see her father close in on the supposedly dead man.

The great sage reached for the man's turban and tore it off of his head, revealing the messy black hair underneath. "He won't be needing this anymore."

"What are you-," she began to protest, her focus shifting swiftly to her father.

Marcassin raised a solitary finger to his lips with a smirk. He raised his wand and drew the symbol for the spell, Shift Shape, changing most of the dead man's appearance to that of a Hamelin citizen's.

"W- _why_ are you doing that," she wondered, looking up again at him. "What use does that have? You already executed him."

The sage placed his hands on his hips and looked up at the smog concealed ceiling of Hamelin. He sighed and chuckled. "You have much to learn if you want to continue being a porcine princess and eventual ruler of Hamelin, Lynnea." He knelt down to the "body" of the guard. "In a moment, he'll be waking up." He turned his head to look back at the executioner. "You know what to do, Hogarth."

"H-Hogarth? Your second in command?" She raised an eyebrow and looked incredulously at him. "You- you never intended to truly kill him, did you, father?" She stood and studied the kneeling sage. "This… How long has this act been going on? Did you ever intend to execute him?"

"I… I considered it," he answered after a long pause and standing up. "And knowing the people, they wanted him to die as well." He closed his eyes and shook his head again. "I honestly couldn't bring myself to do it…" He grabbed the severed noose and held it up to show her. "It's not even tied properly. At most he would have passed out with some minor bruising." He tossed the noose aside.

She crossed her arms and glared at him. "You were being so cold…," she pointed out. She heard Amos's body be dragged away but remained focused on her father. "And- and _horrible_!"

He smirked. "I'm a very good actor. Brother taught me well." He turned and watched as Hogarth and the now newly freed prisoner disappear from view. "I had to make it look real. I even held back telling your mother." He looked back up at the layer of smog. "I have to admit… I wasn't expecting you to defy me so adamantly. You've got your uncle's stubborn nature."

"What will happen to him, to Amos," she said, ignoring his compliment.

He blinked for a moment. _So his name was 'Amos'?_ He shook his head, determining a different identity for him. "I'm granting your request…" He placed a hand on his chin in thought. When he saw her face brighten up, he added, "But with some strict regulation. He'll be given a new life and a new identity."

"You had a change of heart," she observed. "We both did…"

He sighed again and looked down. "Technically… I've never been a fan of raising my wand against anyone unless it was necessary, Lynnea." He paused for a moment in thought. "I struggled to find a suitable punishment for his crime that would sate my own moral scruples and the public's want for closure." He turned around and started to walk down the steps. As she followed suit, he held out his hand. She took it and allowed her father to help her down. They began to walk to the palace, the guards now coming out to dismantle the underused gallows. "I already accepted that Gascon had put himself in harm's way to protect you. I accepted the idea that the guard, Amos as you call him, couldn't stop his sword in time and struck him down accidentally- even if he intended to kill whoever got in his way." He stopped at the front gates and turned to her. He placed his hand on her shoulder and looked into his daughter's vibrant blue eyes. "I accept that it wasn't your fault- that it wasn't anyone's fault but Gascon's that he died." He cracked a smile and nodded. "And he died a hero saving you."

As the gates opened he looked ahead. "As such, I could not take his life," he admitted, taking his hand off of her shoulder. He stepped forward, his stride purposeful and proud. "Because I have moved on. It is time you moved on as well…"

She hummed thoughtfully at his words and followed him in. Move on she shall. She had failed to save him but in trying she had realized her own future. Now all that was left was to pursue it.

Perhaps… she was truly herself.


	13. Guilt

She found herself in her uncle's room, or now, as her father lovingly put it, her miniature workshop. She couldn't remember why she had come in here. Usually, it would be to tinker with her arm or maintain the Cad's Cannon but now? She didn't know.

She was just there, standing in the middle of the room. Something made her tense about this, more tense than usual. She faced the door, studying it.

Something fell behind her resulting in a large, _"clang!"_ She jumped, turned towards the work desk and looked down. It was one of the old burnt out devices that hadn't been broken down. She wondered if one of the familiars broke out of the locket.

She backed away warily, unaware of the shadow that loomed behind her.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end suddenly. She swiveled around and found Amos standing just a few feet away- in front of the door. He was as she had seen him in the dungeon just weeks before his execution, bedraggled and filthy. It didn't affect his cold indifference.

"You- you shouldn't be up here. How did you-," she was cut off when he bolted towards her. She reached for her gun and her eyes widened at the missing firearm. Had she misplaced it? Had she left it in her chambers? She reached for her wand- it was snapped in two?! How the hell could it be broken?!

She raised her left arm in defense but soon found it lopped off, part of her shoulder cut off with it. She winced as she saw him lift one of the spears the guards formerly used. _He must have nicked it from the armory!_ She thought as she held her shoulder. She backed up. She found her breaths panicked and uneven.

She stumbled into the work desk and slumped down. For a moment, she saw a glimpse of the schematic for her arm, framed as a memento of the long dead.

He reached out and wrapped a hand around her neck. His eyes were as icy as his hands. He showed no emotion. There wasn't anything wrong, to him, with what he was doing. He seemed to simply be finishing what he had set out to do in the first place: dispatch a criminal.

She gasped for air, only to draw none. Was she going to die? Was this the end? After all that. After all the progress she had made, would it all be for nothing?

She grabbed his wrist, her body beginning to weaken from the lack of oxygen. No… No, she couldn't! She had to live! She had so many more things she wanted to do- to improve! She weakly struggled under the former guard, only able to writhe helplessly. Suddenly, he seemed to have a sick sense of glee, as if her attempts amused him. A wide mad grin spread across his face as he attempted to slowly but surely finish her by knocking her head into the metal edge of the work desk's support.

The shaking knocked down the framed blueprints, eventually crashing onto the floor, cracking the glass. _Someone, anyone… Help me…,_ she could only think. She couldn't talk, she couldn't scream. All that escaped her were small choked squeaks. _Uncle Gascon…_ She looked down at the arm schematic. She saw him, a younger form of him wearing the ensemble he wore in the legends reflected fractally in the sections of glass and felt a slight pang of hope.

It started to fade when she saw his expression. He looked disappointed. He looked disdained. "You deserve this… You tried to save my murderer," he said in a dull whisper.

She felt tears escape her eyes at his uncaring words. He just stood idly by and watched. He grabbed her severed left arm and crouched to her level, using it to point at her. "You don't deserve to have _anything of mine_." As much as she would have wished, his voice and his eyes seemed devoid of any warmth. They were hollow, cold, as cold as a dead man's could be. He swung it down on the picture frame, shattering the glass right along with any hope she had of surviving.

He raised the arm again and looked at it thoughtfully. With a sick grin, he slammed it against the floor until it was completely mangled and useless. She reached out to it, her fingers flexing weakly to grab it, but her arm fell slack. The grin fell back into the sneer he originally sported.

He tossed it to the side as he crouched down. He removed the documents. He looked up at her, the cold, disappointed frown returning. He tore it up- everything, including the edits she made- right in front of her.

If she had the strength, she would have pleaded for him to stop. She would have cried out, begging him to forgive her, but the only indication she could give was the tears that streamed down her pained face. Why was he doing this to her…?

Amos stopped slamming her head against the desk long enough for the elder thief to get closer to her, close enough that he took up her field of vision.

"You don't deserve to _live_ ," he hissed vehemently, menacingly.

"Prince Marcassin, Lady Josephine," a servant frantically called, bursting into the throne room. They were sitting on the large pink sofa, reviewing expansion plans. The sage's head snapped up from the paper, the urgent tone of the man catching his attention. His wife followed suit.

"What is it? Is something wrong," Marcassin responded, adopting just as concerned a tone as the help in front of him.

"It's your daughter- the princess! Something's wrong with her left arm," their visitor shouted, panic filling his eyes. As they stood, he continued, "It's like it's possessed!"

While his wife had a hand to her mouth, the prince quickly held back his fear and worry and stared sternly back at the servant. "Show me. Take me to my daughter." With a nervous nod and a gulp, the man did just that.

They rushed to her room. Other servants and even the current royal physician was there. He shoved all of them aside, abandoning his usual polite nature just to attend to Lynnea. She was unconscious but blue from the lack of air. She seemed to grasp for it desperately. Her metal hand was gripping her neck tight.

Marcassin glanced over the teenager, looking for a way to disengage the arm. He turned to one of the servants and grabbed them by the shoulder. "Get me one of the engineers," he ordered. The servant nodded and left to fulfill his request.

Josephine had pursued him and stood by his side. "What's going on? Why is her arm doing that," she cried. She gripped her husband's right arm as she looked on in abject horror at the sight. They needed to move fast or else…

Something caught the empress's eye. It was the glowing purple runes on the back of the arm. "There," she indicated. "Marcassin, that looks like-," she quickly deduced.

"Magic." He nodded. "Her arm is powered by her magic." He drew his wand and began to draw a symbol. "Nix," he shouted. The rune glowed, and the arm went slack. He replaced his wand and reached down to move the metal limb away from her throat. He backed away and motioned for the royal physician to check her.

"She's alive…," he stated after checking her pulse. He checked her neck and assessed the damage. "No broken bones, just severe bruising." He rested a hand on her chest- just under the shoulder. For a moment, he was still, measuring her breaths with the rise and fall of her chest. "Her breathing's returning to normal." He turned around to face her parents. "I shall fetch pain medication for her injuries." Glanced at the arm and then back at them out of concern. "I advise you to have her remove her arm as she prepares for bed, your majesty, lest you wish to chance a repeat." With a nod, he began to leave. "She should be waking up soon. I'll return to check on her."

Marcassin approached her again, this time sitting on the edge of her bed. He looked on with troubled eyes. Her face was returning to its natural color, the blood flow renewed. Even though he knew she'd live through this, it didn't stop him from worrying.

Josephine sat next to him, one hand resting on her long turquoise skirt covered lap and the other reaching up to caress her husband's back. "She's going to be alright, my love," she comforted him quietly. She hoped her words were true as she watched Lynnea with him. _Please… Please, be alright, Lynnea…_

There was a hesitant deep breath before he tore his sight away from her. He looked at his partner and saw the tears in the corners of her eyes. He reached out, caressed her face, and gently wiped them away with his thumb. "Josephine…," he began, swallowing as he looked into her frightened eyes. "I have to be honest- there are only two reasons she would choke herself in her sleep." He closed his eyes and looked down. He released a shaky, nervous sigh and looked back at her. "Josephine, magic such as the type she uses for her arm to work syncs up with the user's consciousness and subconsciousness. She would have had to dream of someone- or even herself- strangling her."

 _Did she want to die?_ The empress thought fretfully. She gasped and shook her head. "No- no we couldn't have-!" She started to panic. "Marcassin, did- did we do this to her?" She gripped his left shoulder and stared into his eyes as more tears formed in her own. "Is this- Is this our fault…? Did we hurt her…?" She began to tremble.

"Josephine," he whispered. He shook his head. "No. We don't know that. We don't know what she dreamed, not entirely." He glanced back at the girl who now breathed normally, and he lowered his hands from her face. "Another option is… is someone overrode her Puppet String spell." He frowned and squinted, his eyes shifting as he looked at the arm. He didn't sense any other magic than her own when he disabled it. "But that's highly unlikely." He turned back to her. She had lowered her head and started to cry. "Josephine…," he said as he pulled her into a hug, her head resting on his chest. "It's alright… We'll figure this conundrum out. We'll help her through this." He rubbed her back as he consoled her.

"We almost lost her, Marcassin," she wept. "We almost lost our daughter!" She gripped his robes tightly. She looked up at him. "What if we _did_ do this?!" She shook him. "What does that _mean_?!" She seemed to hyperventilate out of stress.

"It means we need to talk to her," he snapped, his own frustration with the situation finally breaking through. "It means we have to talk to her and _listen_." He gripped the back of her shirt as he glared down at her. "It means we need to help her get better. And if it isn't us- if we are not to blame, then we will _still_ be there for her." The empress's breaths evened out as she heard his determined words. Tears started to fall down his own cheeks, which he quickly wiped away with a sleeve. "I- I don't want to be like my father… I don't want- I've already made so many of the same mistakes that caused Gascon to go through so much pain." He sniffed. "Josephine… She needs us. No matter what it is." He held her closer, tighter.

"You said," she whispered after a few moments of silent rocking. "Your father loved Gascon…," she reminded him, her voice quiet and laced with confusion.

The sage cleared his throat. "He… he did. Our father didn't always convey it well. They had issues seeing eye to eye, mostly," he rasped. "I've already forced her away…" He thought of the mechanical arm that had suddenly turned on its inventor- Lynnea. Then, he thought of how thin she had gotten in just the two years she'd been away. "Her health was probably compromised… and she's been mortally wounded. Thank goodness my brother found her when he did." He shuddered to think of how she had probably lost the limb- the horrible scenarios that came into play. That only brought the image of what he had seen that day in Al Mamoon. "We owe a lot to him…"

"Could it be…?" She glanced up at him, a slight flicker of hope in her eyes, yet they remained clouded with guilt and fear. "Could it be that something she saw out there- whatever took her arm- be coming back to haunt her?" Her grip tightened on the robes once again. "Who am I kidding, Marcassin? We're still responsible for this-!" She stopped when she heard the slight moans of barely registering consciousness.

Both of their attention shifted immediately to Lynnea. She blinked her eyes blearily. "Mother…? Father…," she wheezed as she looked up at them. She attempted to sit herself up with both arms but found only one responding. "My left arm…" She looked down at it and saw the runes had gone dark. "Wha- what happened to it?" She sat herself up with her right. "What did you do," she snapped angrily, glaring at Marcassin.

He ignored her glare as he scooted closer to her. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "Thank goodness…," he praised, his hold on her growing tighter. "We were so worried… Your wounds weren't that severe after all!" His voice was flooded with relief.

Her mouth hung open in confusion. She started to piece together what he meant. Had that nightmare really happened? Her head wasn't sore- well, except for an oxygen-deprived headache she was now enduring and her sore, bruised neck. Her arm was still snugly attached to her shoulder, despite it being deactivated for the time being. So… What was it they were talking about…? "Father? What do you mean? I was only having a nightmare."

Her mother's face popped over his shoulder, her eyes red from all the frightened tears. She shook her head, the image of seeing her only daughter attempting to kill herself in her sleep replaying in her head. She frowned. "You were strangling yourself in your sleep, Lynnea," she snapped, her voice trembling. Fresh tears started to form again, the details coming back to her. "You turned blue from the lack of air…" She wrapped her left arm around her right shoulder and joined them in their embrace. She pressed her forehead against her daughter's as she continued to weep, this time out of relief. "Lynnea. I thought you weren't going to make it! I thought you'd die!"

She could only stare back at her. Where was this when she returned home? Did Gascon's death overshadow the relief they felt? "…Is this a dream…," she asked them. "Did I scare you this much when I left…?"

They both backed up suddenly, though they both refused to let go. They shared a glance and the sage looked back at her while her mother looked down and away. He nodded. "We tried to search for you… When we couldn't find you…," he sighed and swallowed hard. "I had to have Hogarth take over while I tried to reach out to the neighboring kingdoms. When that failed…" He paused and looked over to the now guilt-ridden face of Josephine.

Her mother began to speak in a low regretful voice, "I… I placed a bounty on you. We suspected what you had done, so we… We hoped someone would turn you in- would deliver you safely to Al Mamoon so we could bring you home." She shook her head. "We had no idea what we were doing. We were so worried and so frightened we even forgot to stipulate the conditions of the bounty."

Before she could even argue, her father stepped in. "When we realized that you'd still be in harm's way, your uncle was just returning home from his latest errand. I told him to keep an eye out for you along the way back to Al Mamoon and to bring you home," he explained. He bowed his head with gritted teeth. "We are so sorry, Lynnea. We had no idea what had become of you. We- we panicked." His fingers pressed into her shoulders. He wept for the second time that day. "W-we're sorry that we failed to understand the limitations of your abilities. We're sorry we didn't communicate- that we didn't try!" He shook her. "We're sorry we pushed you away."

For the moment, she was quiet. She never thought she'd see her father this way. In a way, she supposed it was her fault that she didn't listen to them. Here they were blaming themselves. They were both wrong, herself included. "Let the past stay in the past," she muttered quietly.

"What," Marcassin whispered. He looked up at his daughter with lost eyes. What had she just said? He could have sworn he said something similar once to Cassiopeia, but he could barely make it out.

She looked down and her shoulders began to shake. The two of them froze as they watched her. Was she crying…? No. No, she was laughing- hoarsely, painfully from the bruising, but laughing. She looked up with grateful tears in the corners of her eyes. She reached up with her right hand and wiped them away in her right eye. "I forgive you," she said through the laughter. At the dumbfounded faces they both had, she grinned. "If I can find it in my heart to forgive Amos, I can find it in my heart to forgive my parents for being fools a couple of times." She giggled.

"Lynnea…," the sage breathed. A smile broke through his sorrowful demeanor. He brushed a lock of hair from his daughter's face as he searched it. "Gascon wasn't the only legend that influenced you." He chuckled. "I'm glad those tales turned out to be such a good influence after all."

She tilted her head, a confused frown crossing her features. "Huh…," she squeaked. Her mother shook her head with a wry chuckle and a, "Never mind."

Her parents released their hold on her and gave her some space. Her father looked down pensively for a moment. When he returned his attention to her, his face was wrought with concern. "Lynnea, I must ask you a difficult question," he approached, leaning forward. "What was the nightmare about?"

The princess paused, releasing a frightened gasp. She looked down and reached over to her left shoulder, rubbing it for comfort. To them, she seemed to withdraw into herself, not answering at all.

At Lynnea's hesitant, nervous behavior, Josephine placed a hand on her own chest. She nodded confidently. "You can trust us, Lynnea." She leaned forward slightly and took her daughter's right hand. "Please, we need to know."

As she sighed, she gave a small grunt of discomfort. "I dreamed… I dreamed Amos attacked me. He was trying to kill me." She saw them share a worried glance and she leaned forward suddenly. "It's not what you think- Amos has hardly anything to do with it!" She looked down. "At least I don't think he does." She shook her head and looked back at them. "There's more."

"More?" The sage slightly tilted his head. "What else could there be?"

"I was in uncle's room. While Amos was choking me, Swaine appeared. He looked like how he described himself in the legends." She shuddered as she recalled the uncaring, cold look in his eyes. "He tore up the schematic for my arm. He was angry with me for trying to save Amos…" She trembled at the memory. "He wanted me to die." The very thought made her sick. She felt a chill envelope her for a moment and her body began to shake. _He wanted me to die… I was wrong, wasn't I…?_ Her eyes widened before she squeezed them shut. _No! That_ wasn't _my uncle! ...Was it?_ She shook her head fervently and looked up. "Please! Tell me that doesn't sound like Uncle Gascon! He would never hold a grudge like that, would he?!"

Her father bowed his head and her mother looked at him for confirmation. "Many don't know this, but the pure-hearted one was the soul mate of Shadar, the scourge of this world." He seemed to be searching the sheets with his eyes. He met his daughter's gaze. "Even with that knowledge, my brother fought by his side." He shook his head again. "Lynnea, there's not a chance he'd bare a grudge against you- not enough to want you _dead_. I dare say he'd be proud of you."

"Then why…? Why did I have that horrible dream," she pleaded for an answer. "Is it guilt…?"

Marcassin and Josephine shared another look. The Empress nodded, followed by her husband. He reached out and rested a hand on her right shoulder. "It's alright. You've done a _good_ thing- or at least you tried. You followed your heart, what you believed was right, and tried to save someone."

"But that person was a murderer," she recounted.

"Indeed, and one on brink of despair. But you saw good in him regardless," her mother acknowledged. She hummed thoughtfully. "He wasn't right… but neither would we be to do exactly what he did. Vengeance is hardly ever the answer." She smiled proudly at her. "You recognized that." When their daughter bowed her head she sighed defeatedly. "Perhaps you should talk to him- to see what his thoughts are. It might help you."

Lynnea looked up again, her eyes widened. "What," she exclaimed. "Who? Swaine?! He's dead-," she began to argue.

The emperor jolted back with a quizzical countenance. "No, of course not! Amos! You should talk to _Amos_ ," he clarified, hissing the name. He raised a hand near his head and whispered, "Or shall I say, Areole Aubrac of Hamelin." He spared a glance at the help who stayed to keep an eye on her as well as those who came to clean the room. "I suggest you call him that for now, Lynnea."

She nodded in response. "I shall," she agreed her lips pursed. "I need to know if we were right… sparing him." She looked at the wall in thought. "I don't exactly trust him, still… He _did_ attack me." She fiddled with her limp left fingers.

With a breath through his nose, he gave a short nod. "I agree." He lowered his head. "Until he has sufficiently proven his own words, we should be on guard around him." Marcassin heaved a heavy sigh and began to get up. "We have to attend to the kingdom." Josephine got up as well, though hesitantly. They both paused as they caught each other's sight and looked back at their daughter.

"Will you be alright," she asked the princess.

Lynnea giggled and smirked knowingly. "Yeah. I should be. It isn't my first time without an arm." She winced, raising her hand to her throat to tenderly rub it, and looked back up with a grin.

They both tensed up at her comment but relaxed a little. "About that," her father stated. "The physician prescribed a suggestion- try to remove your arm before bed."

Her eyes drifted down and her head followed towards her now limp prosthetic. "You blame yourselves for my condition, don't you?" Her right hand idly stroked her left arm's grooves and curves. "Please don't," she requested. "Losing my arm was probably the best thing I could have ever done. I _made_ this myself. With my mechanical _and_ magical knowledge." She looked up at their concerned faces and beamed at them. "I would have never thought to combine the two before!" Her head fell again, though her smile remained. "You see that I'm maimed, and because of that, you pity me- because you think _you_ did this _to_ me. You didn't. This was all me- and it made me _stronger_."

"But Lynnea," her mother began.

"Uncle didn't coddle me. Neither should you," she interjected, raising her right hand to wave at them, even though she still stared down at the purple sheets. "I'm not denying the suggestion either." She raised both eyebrows and glanced at them from the side. "It makes an alarming amount of sense!" She heaved a sigh and lifted her head. "But please, both of you, I beg of you, treat me like I still have both arms?"

It was Marcassin's turn to sigh. She had a point. "I know. It will take time for us to get used to it." He nodded at her confidently. "We'll do our best, Lynnea."


	14. Reincarnate

She strode down to the dungeon of the castle. She found herself in front of the cell, the door open but with a guard present, a hand ever hovering over his weapon. He sat on the ground in an almost meditative state with his legs crossed and his good eye closed while the other was covered with a new patch. His hair was combed back into a messy, stringy ponytail. He wore a short gold coat and a dark green shirt with a small brown belt wrapped around his waist. He wore brown pants underneath and even darker brown shoes on his feet.

"Are you awake, Areole?" She now stood in front of the door.

He breathed deeply in through his nose. "That… isn't my name," he quietly answered. He opened his eye. "I see you've returned… You have questions," he read her, raising an eyebrow. "I have a few of my own."

"Mine first," she requested. She looked back at the guard then to him. "Do you mind…?" She motioned to the inside of his cell. "This _is_ the closest thing to a home you have. Even if we can't trust you… it would be disrespectful to come in without permission."

A small smile appeared on his face. "Come in. You've no reason to fear me…," he stated, glancing at the guard. "I owe your family my life… unfortunately."

As she entered, she cast a confused glance. "Did you _want_ to die?"

"I _wanted_ to pay for my crimes. You've dishonored me!" He glared up at the teen now leaning against the bars.

She crossed her arms. "You had no honor. You were stripped of it the day you ran your sword through Swaine."

He wrinkled his nose as he squinted defiantly at her. "There is honor in _death_. I was finally paying back the world for all of my misdeeds!" He shifted his legs around out of a need for comfort. "A life for a life, that's how it is. But you… You've cheated the public of that pleasure, though they don't realize it!"

She continued to raise an eyebrow as she leaned forward. "You believe that your death would balance the universe or something?" She scoffed. "Are you a wizard?" She shook her head. "Even you believed it wouldn't bring Swaine back, so why bother?" She shrugged and held both hands out to the side. "Listen to me, Areole, you got a second chance," she explained, pointing at him. "You got a new life, a fresh start!"

He stood, his face tense as he seethed in anger. "I was prepared to die," he snapped, stepping forward. "You play a sick game- making me think my life was at an end!" He threw his fist against the wall. "Then I wake up in this odd outfit! I'm told my name is no longer the name I had at birth!"

She stepped closer to the man ignoring the guard's fingers wrapping around the gun handle at his hip. "My father had to make it look real. This is your last chance, Areole."

"That _isn't_ my name," the former guard bit back.

"It is now!" She stomped and shook her head. "My father has always been a man of reason- of peace- if he could help it! I don't think any of this is right. There is no way of looking at this without _anyone_ being in the wrong, here." She looked up at the indentured servant with fire in her eyes. "We need to take it- because like it or not, this is the best option anyone involved has!"

Areole blinked with his good eye, looking down at the girl. He found himself dumbfounded at her sheer stubbornness. He backed away and sat on the cell cot. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. He looked back up at her with lost and confused eyes. "Why did you spare me…?"

She shrugged. "You said it yourself. You didn't mean to kill him." She approached him again. "My father apparently agreed with you and couldn't bring himself to go through with it."

"I am not referring to your family- _you_ , your majesty. Why…?"

She looked down for a moment at the brick floor. She had crossed her arms again and tapped her left with her right hand. "You still had a lot to give. I saw potential in you- though I'm not sure what at the moment." She looked out at the other cells, at the guard. "It seemed like such a waste for a wise man to be put to death." She made a small shrug and looked back at the man in front of her. She smiled down at the floor. "You kind of remind me of my father…"

There was silence between them as the former convict processed her response. "How odd you are, princess Lynnea." He leaned forward with a curious smirk. "What was it you wanted to ask of me in the first place?"

"Was I wrong to spare you," she asked him. She laughed. That was a stupid question. In his opinion, they were all wrong for letting him live.

"Why do you ask," he poked at her inquiry.

"I… I had a nightmare where you…," she cleared her throat nervously, wincing at the bruises around her neck. "You chopped off my arm and strangled me…"

Areole tensed up. Cutting off a limb- yes, he would have done that if she resisted. It was one of the actions that led him to his situation. Strangling…? He had already made it clear he would only kill if the situation ultimately demanded it. In what situation would he strangle a thief? What cause would he have? "I owe you my life, so I have no reason to so brutally take yours," he reminded her, a hand gestured towards her. He leaned on his left arm and placed a hand on his chin. "There's more to this nightmare, isn't there?" When she nodded, he released a short grunt. "Then speak."

Her stomach seemed to turn at the memory. The thought of him just watching complacently as her life had nearly drained away haunted her. It wasn't him- she knew- but it disturbed her more than she could admit. "In short, I saw the legendary thief. He wanted me dead for trying to save you. He _let_ you try to kill me."

There was an indignant snort. "That doesn't sound like the man I supposedly murdered," he reasoned. "I see why you asked what you asked." He tilted his chin up as he assessed her. "You feel guilty- not just for his death, but for saving the man who killed him." He leaned forward again. "What's more, you feel unworthy of the sacrifice he made because of it." He smirked. "Embrace that feeling. It means you're still you, girl, but don't let it overtake you." He nodded and he wrung his hands together in front of him. "I said it before and I'll say it again: no man makes that kind of sacrifice if you were not invaluable. It wouldn't matter if you had known and told him about saving his murderer ahead of time, I am certain he would have stepped in front of my blade anyway."

"You really think my uncle was that noble?" She eyed the prisoner warily.

"From what I've seen, family is wont to protect family, sometimes at the cost of their own lives." He studied the ground. "Would he be furious with you? I certainly believe so. Would he want you dead for it? Well, I did not know him so I cannot properly say." He raised his head and glanced at the ceiling. "I speculate that he wouldn't so readily throw his life away only for you to lose yours. It would be a waste."

"You were wrong to spare me," he answered. "But not for the reasons you believe." He leaned back. "However, I am grateful for your effort." He found himself smiling at her. "I'm alive. I must truly still have a role to fill." He got up from the cot.

Before she could respond she found him a foot away from her. She raised her left hand reflexively, cautiously. Her right was just over her gun handle. The guard outside pulled his weapon and pointed at him.

"Easy." He raised his hands. He slowly reached his right hand out to her face and gently held her chin. "What role shall I play, your grace," he wondered curiously with a tilted head. He drew closer to her, ignoring the guard's tightening grip on his gun. "What role would _you_ have me fill as your servant?"

"Unhand her," the guard outside of the cell ordered. He motioned for him to back away. "Away from the princess!"

As a chill ran down her spine, she shoved him away. "For now, follow the usual rules of the servant to ruler conduct unless ordered to!" Her face was flushed red as she glowered at him. _Hold on… He's attracted to me?! Is it because I attempted to save him? The hell is that about?!_ She shook her head and ran a hand over her face. _He's just toying with me, that's all._

"I was just having a little bit of fun…," he jested. He rolled his shoulders. "I've been alone for quite a while, your highness. I thought perhaps I could try my hand at making a friend- especially one who has gone out of her way to attempt to save me." He sat back down on the cot. "That kind of risk breeds loyalty."

She growled furiously. "So this is a ploy to usurp me- to use me," she accused, shoving a finger towards him. "If this is all so you can gain power and respect easily, I won't have it and neither will the empire," she defiantly claimed, throwing her left arm out from her chest, motioning to outside the cage.

He stared at her in awe before he cracked a grin and began to guffaw. "I have to hand it to you, you certainly know how to make me laugh, your highness!" He leaned forward. "Ha! I've had plenty of respect for years! Until I was so dishonorably let go, there were guards and citizens who hoped for my success, who thanked me." He stopped for a brief moment as his sudden cheerful demeanor fell a little. "There were plenty still that detested me- those are the ones who plague my consciousness." He looked down at the ground and resumed his chuckling, holding his sides. "Even when I was let go, the Cowlipha herself wished me well, informing me that I was lucky to have Rashaad on my side." He pulled his leg up on the bed and placed both hands on it, leaning toward her. "I want nothing of yours. In fact, all I want is to have one solitary friend in this new life."

She raised an eyebrow, though her expression remained cross. "And you plan to do that by _flirting_ with _me_?!" She scoffed and quickly threw a glance at the bars of the other cells and back at him. "That's not the best way to make a friend, Areole." There was a snicker and she tilted her head.

"Like that, she misses my intention," he commented, snapping a finger.

She blinked for a moment as she stared at him. She ran back through his previous words. "Y-you're accepting this life?" She looked down and searched the brick floor. She raised her head and pressed a hand to her chest. "Why are you choosing _me_? Of all the people to choose as an ally, the person who you assaulted?!"

"And the person who has given me the most time to listen to my words." He leaned back. "If anything, you've given me the most respect despite recent events." He nodded, accepting his rationale. "I owe my life to your father, but you've been the most honorable. What better an ally- a friend- than one who has fought for me despite my actions." He chuckled and looked at the wall the head of his bed faced. "That- and you've truly caught my attention." He returned his gaze to her. "You _fascinate_ me, your majesty."

She hummed in response. She stood in mild contemplation, looking up at the ceiling. "How good are you with a sword, Areole?"

He scoffed indignantly with narrowed eyes. "You seek to replace your uncle."

She leaned back suddenly out of confusion. "What? No!"

He leaned forward with a sly smirk. "You don't fool me, your highness." He relaxed, leaning back again. "I've read up on Hamelin history. I was allowed so as a palace guard. The firstborn heir of Hamelin should be proficient in the sword _and_ in their wealth of knowledge. You tend to value intellectual prowess over most other things." He examined the brick wall to the right of him. "This is the _machine_ capital of the world!" He chuckled as he returned his attention to her. "You may be trying to fill an endless hole out of grief- but let us examine the truth, shall we?" He raised a hand in a half shrug and tilted his head. "You lack a mentor, and you do not prefer your father. So you're trying to replace what can no longer function."

She growled and took a single stomp towards him. "You- you're nothing like Swaine! You could never be him! How dare you make such assumptions!" She recomposed herself but continued to look down at him with crossed arms. "I'm not trying to replace him."

He chortled again. "How blind you are to yourself. It is amusing, your grace." He continued to stare smugly at her. "If you wish to learn your uncle's second weapon of choice, perhaps ask someone other than I? Or maybe-!" He placed a hand on his chin and rubbed it in thought. "Examine a few artifacts?"

She scowled at him fiercely. "You refuse to serve, then?"

"I refuse to hold your hand," he retorted. "In fact, I refuse to deny you the ability to work this out on your own, your majesty." He leaned forward. "Come to me when you believe you have all the pieces."

"You're in no condition to give orders." She let her hands drop to her side and eyed him with an authoritative air. "Watch your tone," she warned venomously.

He laughed from his place on the cot. "And you want answers. I'd say as long as there's a puzzle to be solved- one with which I've gotten answers to just observing your behavior thus far- I hold some power over you." When her face shifted from anger to fear, he laughed again. "Don't worry- I do not plan to use it maliciously. I just want you to think." He grinned. "I _love_ watching people figure things out, struggling to better themselves. In the end, it may be worth it- or maybe not." He narrowed his eyes. "Life is a game I enjoy observing. It is a looming opponent I constantly duel at the risk of my own life- especially under these new circumstances."

She huffed through her nose. Her arms were crossed again. "That's a sick way of viewing this. I could just order you to tell me what you know, you know," she spat.

His grin widened as he, too, crossed his arms. "But you won't. You wouldn't trust a man with blood on his hands for information. You wouldn't trust him training you in the ways of a sword, either." He got up from his cot and drew dangerously close to her. He loomed over her as his grin disappeared. "Find your closure elsewhere, princess Lynnea. All I am is a dangerous dead end," he whispered menacingly. He turned his attention to the guard outside at the sound of his gun being drawn again. He backed away, resuming sitting on the cot with his legs crossed.

This conversation was going nowhere. She shook her head and let her arms fall to her sides again before walking out. "You have a kind heart, your highness. Use it well," he shouted after her, slightly leaning his head back with a smirk. She froze. She nodded quietly back at him over her shoulder. It wasn't right… nor was it wrong then- it was just her nature. With a small smile, she left him in the dungeon to play his game.


	15. Epilogue: Moving Forward

She sat again in her "workshop" in deep contemplative thought. She thought about the conversation between her and the prisoner. _"You wouldn't trust him training you in the ways of a sword…"_ She didn't want to ask her father… or Hogarth. She didn't want to go back to two years ago. She'd be facing the inevitability of her failure.

She still wanted to learn. She wanted to know. She wanted to prove she was worthy of her birthright. …What would Gascon say about it? She shook her head violently. No! She had to stop thinking about him. He wasn't the answer to her problems. Some of them, yes, but not all of them! He wasn't a god… now she wondered if he was even a legend. He had fallen so easily.

" _Find your closure elsewhere, princess Lynnea,"_ Amos- Areole- had advised her. Perhaps the felon was right, she realized, looking around at the room. She wouldn't find her closure talking to him nor among her late uncle's dusty old quarters. She needed to get out. She needed to breathe. She got up and walked to the door. When she exited, she was caught by surprise by her father.

"L-Lynnea," he stammered taking a step back reflexively. He flustered about, looking down then up at the ceiling. He finally focused on her again and seemed to straighten himself out. "I- er…" He cleared his throat when he noticed the confused raised eyebrow of his daughter. He straightened up to his normal, composed formal look. "Lynnea, I know you're busy drawing up new ideas and so forth, but I was wondering…" He held his hand towards her as if offering something. "Would you like to take a walk-through town?"

She blinked for a moment at his invitation. She smirked. "Funny. I was about to take a walk anyway." She shifted and started to walk past him. He seemed to hesitate and when she noticed he hadn't followed her to the end of the hall, she turned to look at the lone emperor of Hamelin. "Well, are you coming, father? Or shall I be forced to go alone" She tilted her head back and laughed, "Not that I'd be used to it." She tapped the toe of her left shoe on the metal floor. "Though some company would be nice."

He hadn't expected her to agree. Perhaps he was getting somewhere in rekindling their bond? He scoffed and turned around swiftly, easily catching up with her. "Of course," he shouted happily, grinning from ear to ear.

They walked through the city streets admiring the eagerly chatting townsfolk- some discussing plans for new scientific endeavors, some simply chatting about upcoming anniversaries or birthdays or even just dinner plans for the evening. The city was ever luminous with the lights of the buildings and street lamps reflecting on the hazy "sky" of steam, smoke, and ash.

It never ceased to amaze her how much machinery went into the main streets of Hamelin. Yet, for most of the city's integral infrastructure, stone was still the main material of choice. What would alone be jarring clanging as pistons moved to power various buildings fell into the background din of the city.

She imagined what it would be like to fall asleep to that din rather than the invasive quiet of her room in the palace or the miscellaneous shouts and howling wind of the desert communities of the southern Summerlands. It would definitely be something- it would definitely be hypnotic and lulling with the repetitive clanging and hissing of steam.

The two were quiet for the most part. They had walked to the end of the main plaza. Her father was staring up at the balcony. She could only imagine what he was thinking at that moment. Was he thinking of his brother? Was he thinking of what to say to her?

"I'm sorry, Lynnea," he began. He tore his gaze away from the area that peered out over the massive city. He looked at her, but mostly at her left shoulder. "I did this… Didn't I…?"

For a moment she couldn't tell what he was referring to. She followed his sight to the object in question. When she saw, she grabbed her left arm and suddenly leaned towards him. "I told you- stop blaming yourself! This wasn't your fault!"

"I pushed you away. I told you to stop chasing after my brother- after your dreams." He looked at her. "I blamed them for your lack of healing magic."

"But you were right!" She glared up at him. "God, you were completely right! I shouldn't have! Swaine would still be alive!" She looked down at her arm. "I lost a limb! I should have listened to you and mother." She rubbed her mechanical arm nervously and glanced down at it. "This wasn't your fault. It was mine. I did this to myself."

"But none of this would have happened if we had just been more understanding," he lectured, more to himself than his daughter. He shook his head, the memory of seeing his older brother so many many years ago from the future, looking so disheveled, returning to him. _Perhaps this is what father felt when he saw Gascon's future form- sheer regret. Sheer unadulterated guilt and regret._ He tore his gaze away from her when he found himself looking at the arm again. "Lynnea… I'm truly sorry for our actions…" He looked back at her, his pained frown replaced with a slightly feigned smile. "But you've grown up. You've become smarter- wiser." He placed a hand to his hip. "Perhaps there is some good in this disaster after all."

"Could you not call it a disaster, father," she sighed as she rolled her eyes. She sighed once more as she looked down at the brick laid street. "Then again, what else is there to call it?" She began to walk towards one of the side avenues available to them. He followed, walking alongside her. She jumped up on a rail and balanced as she strode along it. "I still need closure."

There was a moment of silence before a nervous chuckle emanated from the emperor. "Yes. I suppose there was the chance Areole wouldn't provide much." He looked down and paused for a moment. "I suppose I am the only one to do so, then." She stopped and hopped down, turning to face him once she regained her balance.

She paid close attention to him, studying the forty-seven-year-old. He had a small sad smile as he looked over his daughter. For once, in all the rare times they ever truly talked, he looked relaxed, an ordinary man rather than an emperor.

"He loved you, you know…," he stated as he looked over to a small balcony just above the slanted pathway. "He was probably more excited than I was when you were born." He gave a wry chuckle. "You would think he was the new father! He wouldn't leave your side during the following weeks before he went on his first errand for the empire." He looked up at the layer of smog overhead and she followed his gaze. "We cannot hope to know the universe in its entirety- for anyone soul to attempt so would be foolish and gluttonous. We can only hope to know a fraction of it and be content. Even so…" He paused and looked back at Lynnea. She blinked as she looked back at her father. "I sometimes wonder if the universe intended you to be his daughter- you're so alike." His smile widened as he tilted his head.

"Oh…," she muttered, looking down in disappointment. She was rubbing her left arm again- a nervous habit.

"I'm happy for that, you know. I had always hoped you'd take after him. I just didn't expect…," he trailed off as he looked at her right hand gripping the prosthetic. He shook his head. "But you're not just a stand-in for him- don't ever think that, Lynnea," he cautioned, reaching a hand out to her. "You are you- and as your father…" He approached her.

Sensing his proximity, she looked up at him. She backed away warily.

Marcassin swallowed, his gentle smile falling a little at her hesitancy. "Lynnea. It's alright," he softly reassured.

She looked down, gripping her arm tighter. "Sorry. I… I'm just sort of used to being in worse places." A small regretful smile twitched onto her face. "It's habit. It's not you," she whispered. She stiffened up when she felt his arms around her. Her paranoia and reflexes screamed to defend herself, but her instincts quelled it. Her father wouldn't hurt her- never.

"Just know I'll love you no matter what." He stroked her hair gently. "The same is true for your mother. The same would be true for Gascon if he were still here."

They were silent for a moment, both letting the sage's words sink in. She eventually relaxed She returned the embrace. "I miss him."

"I miss him, too."

She scoffed, smirking. "You think he misses us, wherever he is up there?"

"Absolutely." He glanced at the side of her head. "I'm certain of it."

She looked down below his shoulder. "I'm sorry I can't do healing magic, father." She felt her lips begin to tremble and tears begin to form. "I'm sorry I can't be a great sage like you want me to be." She gripped the back of his purple waistcoat.

He held her tighter. "Hush. None of that, now." He closed his eyes. "I just want you to be my daughter- which you already are." He sighed contemplatively. "I believe in you. You'll be quite the strong empress."

"Father," she whimpered. "I'm sorry for destroying his inventions."

He froze. He searched his memory, attempting to dredge up whether there were any actual keepsakes of value. No… He wouldn't have applied the parts he had if there were. The only invention, after all, was the broken hog tank in the corner of the room. "He wanted you to make something out of them. I hardly remember most of those, to begin with."

"R-really," she stammered.

"Truly." He slipped a hand to her prosthetic, idly tracing the sheets of metal that composed it as well as the rivets. "They really were taking up space, Lynnea." He sighed. "It's good to see them finally put to actual use." He pulled away. He held her chin, wiping a tear from her left eye. "So do not count yourself out quite yet. Continue to repurpose the old and broken into something new. That is how the world progresses."

She sniffed and raised a hand to wipe the tears from her right eye. "Thank you, father." She nodded.

They continued to walk. After a while, she began to balance on another iron wrought rail. "You think," she started as they turned down another street. "I could learn to use a sword?"

He stopped short. "I thought you knew how?"

"A little. I'm not that good, remember?"

He laughed. "To be like your elders, I see?"

"Well, I figured- huh!" She jumped down again from a rail. She clasped her hands behind her back as she spun around to face him again. "I have to be proficient in that in order to be an empress."

"If these were the old days, perhaps." He beamed up at her- they were standing on an inclined path. "You've much better skill in evasion and gunplay than a sword any day, dear daughter." He placed his hands on his hips. "I'm not going to force an ability that doesn't come naturally to you as I have in the past." He nodded affirmatively. "Your time to make your own decisions is now."

"But- I thought-! What about the sword," she stammered as he began to walk past her. "The sword of Hamelin- your sword? Aren't you suppose to pass it down to the next in line?"

He chuckled. "It is a mere steel sword, Lynnea. A symbol. _Brother_ was more proficient in it than I." He spun around, continuing to walk, though backward. "It really matters not who has it." He stumbled, mid-prance and flailed his arms in brief panic. He caught himself and grinned back at her after looking down at the ground. "It was only a gift from your grandfather, to brother, then to me. It's not a crown. It's a memento."

She chortled at the near miss. "But the requirement for being a queen is-!" She stopped suddenly when she saw her father's face fall. "Father…?"

He continued to look down in thought. There was a chance that wouldn't be a reality, he had suddenly realized. If anyone had found out about what they had done- preserving and saving the convict- chaos would ensue. For her sake and the sake of the kingdom, he'd have to make sure that never happened.

"Father," he heard her squeak as she drew closer. "What is it," she continued to pry. His head snapped up with a smirk. "Nothing, Lynnea." He continued to smile. "I believe you'll be fine without further sword training. You've had the real-world experience to supplement it- especially given that arm of yours." He looked down at it. "Are those slots for claws I see on the fingertips?"

She nodded giddily. "Yes! Any fool who fancies their chances against me will have quite the surprise coming!" She swiped her left hand in front of her extending the claws as she did so. She held up her hand, grinning wildly at the brass razor-sharp tips.

"Hah! With the Cad's Cannon, you are already armed to the teeth! What do you need with a sword?"

She swayed closer to her father, humming slyly. "Oh, you know. Just in case." She looked over at the buildings. "It's a rough world out there." She retracted the claws.

They walked together in silence, the girl admiring the city and the great sage thinking heavily about future plans and dreaded possible outcomes. He even started working on a contingency plan for the worst possible outcome.

If only he had approached the situation more delicately. He looked up at the smog-covered ceiling. If only he had approached bringing her home more delicately. This whole ordeal could have been avoided and a life could have been spared. He shook his head subtly. No. Now. The present reality had to be faced. The past was the past. He had to focus on the eventuality of the future, the consequences of what he chose to do now.

He glanced over to her cheerful face and let a small smile cross his own. He also planned for the best possible future.

"Who needs the sword," she asked jeeringly. She shook her head. They stopped again. "I mean. I guess it would be nice to learn." She rolled her eyes with a tilt of the head, bowing nonchalantly towards him. "For my own safety that is."

"That it would, my dear," he answered. "I too learned for that reason."

She laughed. "Surely you lie. You did it because of Uncle."

The sage rubbed his head in thought. "You could say that was part of it…" They both seemed to pause. Finally, the sage turned away and looked at a building with a piston wheel sticking out of the side avenues. "I believe Areole would have been a worthy heir to the throne if my suspicions are correct."

At first, she just accepted the words. "Huh…" When she realized what he had said she flinched, leaning back. "Wait- what?!" She ran in front of her father with wide confused eyes. "What in the world are you getting at?!"

"I shall not pursue them. He already has enough trauma."

"But- you're implying- you're saying that he's," she stammered, gripping her hair.

Marcassin raised an eyebrow at her sudden flustered behavior. "They are but mere theories Lynnea," he said. He raised a hand and messed with her hair. "As such, I do not plan on telling him."

She froze then looked up at her father. It wasn't often he showed that sign of affection- a sign more suited to the man they had been mourning for almost a year. He had changed in that period of time- they all had. Once he had been shy of being so casual in public, even to her, but it appeared he had abandoned his insecurities.

He hummed quietly, happily. "Don't you agree, Lynnea, that I should not trouble him with half-truths?"

She smiled and nodded. They went back to their walk, the streets quieting down as night began to approach. Though most of the light was artificial in Hamelin most still abided by the time of day, turning in to rest after a hard day's inventing and labor- or both.

"I'd like Areole to teach me," she suggested.

"He is a risk," he warned. He sighed and looked down. "Why do you want him to teach you? _What_ do you want him to teach you," he finally inquired.

"Swordplay and…," she hesitated. She tilted her head towards her father. "Whatever wisdom he has to offer of the world."

Silence fell on them as they continued their trek. The sage looked down pensively.

"I see," he answered. He nodded. "I shall assign him that duty." She began to grin happily, giddily. "On one condition."

"Oh," she wondered with a tilt of the head. "What?"

"He shall have a guard present during your sessions. I don't want you to get hurt." He smiled at her. "You're my only daughter and I haven't the slightest idea what I'd do if anything happened to you."

"You're taking my arm well," she jested.

"Well I've had time to adjust," he shot back.

They had circled back to the palace. "I'm worried about what kind of ruler I'd be in the future," she admitted, looking up at the spire they called home.

"You really shouldn't."

"But what if I make a horrible mistake…," she wondered worriedly.

"Hmm..." He put a hand on his chin in thought. "I once dreamed of my brother lighting a torch and setting Hamelin ablaze." He looked down at the brick floor. "At the time I was incredibly stressed about keeping Hamelin afloat, let alone improving the empire." He shared her view of the spire as they stalled to chat once more. "I just wanted to prove myself to him- to father. I wanted to make both of them proud." He chuckled as he looked down again, smiling sadly. "I've made so many mistakes along the way." He turned to face her.

She turned her attention to him in response.

"What matters is that those mistakes bred new opportunities." He nodded at her, glancing, for a brief second, at her arm. "Do not worry about the eventual mistakes. Avoid them if you can, but they will be made, whatever they may be. In that instance, Lynnea, face them, correct them, use them to your advantage even- but remember to move on."

She nodded firmly after him as they entered the palace. "I shall do my best, father."

She turned to face the main street, the lights beginning to dim in response to the time of day. She smiled at the memory of her uncle, the form he had prior to his demise. She imagined him standing in the middle of the street, returning a wide proud smile that crossed his face.

 _And for you, Uncle Gascon, I will do my best to forge my path… and to honor your way._

The imaginary ambassador nodded and she chuckled.

"Lynnea? Are you coming," she heard her father call. She turned her head to acknowledge him. "Yes, father." She ran after him.

… _Farewell, until we meet again..._ She thought as she entered the palace.

 _...Swaine._


	16. Author's Note

Author's Note:

Greetings. This is Yuni. The author of this fic.

For those of you used to my writing style and general scheme, I tried something different here. Instead of posting on a chapter by chapter basis, I wrote a batch of chapters, worked on them slowly but surely, and then posted them.

I think this improved the quality of the chapters as it gave me time to sit and think about how to approach scenarios. It also allowed for other influences and inspirations to affect and enhance them.

I also didn't post Author's notes before and after each chapter as I do with my drabbles and other works. I've started to be a little simpler and brief with my notes, if any of you have kept track thus far with my other Ni no Kuni related fanfiction. I believe that in doing so, I've allowed the piece to shine better.

Really, it's a matter of approaching things in a slightly more mature light- or at least that's what I view it as. It's also a matter of market research as I've looked at other writers' works and asked myself, "What is it that works for them that not only attracts readers but keeps them?"

Anyway, enough of my stratagem. This fic has been a passion project/crossover (sort of, more on that now). It started with me playing Borderlands 2 and buying the Mechromancer DLC. I guess it was my obsessed mind or the fact I've already completed the vanilla game, but I somehow started wondering if Gaige (or Scrofie as I lovingly named her, as that is the true origin of her alias) would be a good approximation to what someone who grew up with the legend of Swaine would be like. Then I wondered, "Hey, what if it's his tom-boy niece?!" And then I started kind of roleplaying what that character would say in the middle of battle and whenever I got killed in the game. I still intend to finish that playthrough, by the way. (If I could only find good enough pistols, that would be great.)

So, the thing about the Mechromancer? She has a robot she can summon. This robot is a giant floating metal thing that has two arms and laser claws that come out for battle when enemies are present. This was what inspired the design for Avery. Only I took that and gave him an extra set of arms, the lower ones being the ones with- sadly- non-laser claws. Razor sharp, but no lasers. The bottom of the body for the Deathtrap, the robot from the game, has a disembodied spine, Avery does not have this spine- in fact, Avery has a rounded base. He kind of just floats like a Sprog Cog.

Then one day, after getting stuck on a part because my poor gaming PC wasn't configured properly to handle so many enemies, I decided- what the hell. I might as well write about this character. Her mannerisms are rather different from her Borderlands 2 counterpart, only because _that_ version of her makes so many sci-fi pop culture references, there wouldn't be a good way to implement it. So really, I actually had to build off of her core personality without the pop culture references.

For that, we have someone who could die over and over again and still want to finish what she started- something that happens a lot in my playthroughs of Borderlands 2- so we have someone with a similar stubbornness of our favorite gun toting master thief. Then there's my tactic of siccing the robot on them and hiding- so she'd definitely be sneaky. Her mechanic skills easily got attributed to her uncle's propensity to tinker and work with machines- something I often say he still does throughout Ni no Kuni as you make new weapons for him (the parts even match up). On top of that, I'm not entirely familiar with the Mechromancer storyline in the game, so whatever Gaige's character is beyond sci-fi referencing, robot building, overly prideful nerd is beyond me.

The missing arm Lynnea has? That's partially Gaige's design- only Lynnea has a full functioning hand; she has all five digits compared to Gaige's four. Gaige also doesn't have a grappling hook or claw feature, so that's a difference. And if I recall correctly, Lynnea's entire arm is gone. Gaige still has part of her fore-arm from what I recall from the game.

To sum it up, when it comes to Lynnea herself, she's heavily based off the Mechromancer from Borderlands 2 feature wise except for some key parts- Gaige doesn't use actual magic. Lynnea, being the daughter of a sage, does. From there, I built Lynnea further off of that template, giving her a unique identity separate from Gaige. So, the Mechromancer, for that DLC's content and all, is owned by the creators of Borderlands 2. What I made and added/altered- whatever has nothing to do with that DLC for that game? My ideas.

Am I cheap for making a character partially based on another character from another game? Probably. But I feel, despite the heavy influence of that character, that I still managed to make a character that was all her own in the end- that wasn't just a carbon copy of Swaine, Marcassin, or even the Mechromancer class. So, I credit Borderlands 2, and its creators, for the original idea that spawned Scrofie/Lynnea. I don't think I would have ever made this fic if I never bought that DLC.

As for the rest, I really liked the idea of Swaine teaching, magic or otherwise. That's something I wish we had more of in Ni no Kuni. I really thought that was an underused trait in the game- that he knows about magic and how to cast spells. He's been trained for that purpose. He even dedicates himself to tutoring his younger brother, despite his lack of magical talent. I always imagine Swaine correcting Oliver on how to cast a spell because of it. That's why I included that moment of him correcting Lynnea- he _knows_ how spells _work_.

I also aged him up quite a bit- giving him more of the role of wise old man/mentor but keeping his original personality intact. He still knows how to be a giant dork and a pain in the arse. On top of that I love the idea of him moving smoothly and swiftly to evade when he can, almost dancing. I think he would have gotten better at that as he got older. Only, I had to give him a weakness to counter that increased mobility- something that comes with old age and would decrease his mobility occasionally. See, Swaine never took care of himself all too well from what we could tell when we first meet him. He still probably didn't do so well in doing so after he joins everyone and had to be reminded or forced to better take care of himself- probably because of his sense of responsibility or someone (Esther, more than likely) telling him to freaking eat… Or bathe. (Hey! A fic idea!) So that presented the possibility of his personal neglect catching up to him in the form of arthritis- specifically, the legs.

On top of that, I really wanted to kill him off. At the time I guess I was just trying to usurp my obsession with the character by having him die but… no. That didn't happen. In any case, I hadn't realized it but I set up the opportunity for his death perfectly. Lynnea doesn't have healing magic- so there wasn't a way to bring him back through that. Esther got there a minute too late, as did Rashaad. No one had anything to heal his wounds. When I went back and read through it, only now have I realized how carefully I planned that out. And that's only because of my new approach to posting multichapter fics.

Agh, I'm getting side tracked. I really wanted to kill Swaine. I wanted to kill him- but I wanted him to die a hero. I thought of the idea of bringing him back, I thought of someone mentioning the idea of bringing him back, how'd there be an argument, but no. I decided not to for the same reason I didn't want to go through with chapters 16-18, I felt it would just drag on. What would be the point? From a traditional writing perspective, it wouldn't make sense. We've already had our climax… Time for it die down. Time for this version of the thief to finally rest in peace.

And Esther… I tried to keep her in character for the most part. The same goes for Rashaad. It was a little difficult mostly because… well, I really don't care for either of those two. Esther has _always_ been kind of annoying to me mostly because she doesn't have much of a point beyond being a glorified tool for getting familiars and healing the party, as well as being obnoxious. Granted, that's just my personal complaints about her. In response to these complaints, I often try to give her a purpose and rationalize how much she quarrels with Swaine as a sort of sibling relationship more than anything. (A major sticking point for me is obviously how they set her character up initially.)

On the matter of Marcassin: I tried my hardest to make Marcassin smarter, or at least smarter than the way I've written him in the past. He is a very intelligent man and a very powerful sage, so, if I could, I tried to capture that. I also felt the need to give him a wife/lover. A constant one at that. (What is it with sages in this game and lacking physical proof of existing current or past partners?! Did I miss something?! The only one I know of is Kulan, but all the rest are suspiciously absent. Oh, well.) I hope in doing so, I gave a good approximation of what that would be like- married to a ruler/great sage. I hope I didn't fail you.

Squishy… Is a reoccurring character in my fics. Same with Vemahl and Gemini. I always write Squishy like a giant puppy/protective mother ape… because I feel like that's the kind of familiar the Papa Sasquash in any playthrough of Ni no Kuni would be to Swaine. He'd be a big daunting creature to enemies, a big fluff ball of sweetness to companions and his master. There was one thing I didn't include regarding Squishy. It was a prototype idea of Lynnea, Swaine's familiar locket, and their original bond. I think it got slightly worked into one of my other drabbles but I can't remember. This idea had the kid knock over a much bigger creature cage belonging to the thief, letting out the three familiars I consistently attribute to him. Of them, was Squishy. The kid, at first would have been afraid of the yeti, but the yeti, in response to her fear and also having sniffed out the familiar scent of his master on the toddler would just scoop the kid into his arms and coddle them. Then, Marcassin would come in to check on the child, but find Squishy and initially panic, only to see how gentle the yeti was being.

…Typing that all out makes me realize how adorable that would have been and probably would have strengthened his and Lynnea's bond a bit… Perhaps one day I shall add it. Probably as a scene prior to her waking up in Squishy's arms. Who knows.

Now let me talk about Amos. I actually didn't expect to like Amos as much as I did. I was originally just going to have him be a one off evil guard character, but the more I wrote him, the more I wanted to flesh him out. He kind of grew on me and I wanted to give him a sort of redemption for what he did. I think for him, I drew a little off of Sherlock, some of what I've seen in pop culture about Samurai, and that one insane guard in Al Mamoon who wanted to fight a monster cause… Well he thought it was the right thing to do, even though he knew it was a stupid idea that could get himself killed.

If you hadn't noticed at the end of the fic, Marcassin drops a hint that Amos may be the son of our favorite rogue prince. This is in reference to an idea I had been toying with about a coup by the council as well as revealing that fact to Amos himself. Then he'd have to deal with the grief and all that. Deciding that it would be too heavy handed with how much I've been showing Lynnea and everyone else going through this grief, I didn't do that. However, I did keep the idea and used it as a ploy to show that Marcassin does indeed have a heart when it comes to Amos. Another bit, the part with Marcassin stating that he dreamed that Swaine set Hamelin on fire was initially going to be a line in reference to the coup being started over Amos being saved by him. He was originally going to say it in response to the fear he had of the nation going to ruin because of the chaos that would ensue. The issue here? I can't see the citizens of Hamelin being so easily pushed into a state of chaos and revolt given the type of city Hamelin is- a city of revolution and level-headed thought.

There have been wars in the Empire, yes, but Hamelin has stood through them all. I always thought that it wasn't just the armaments and the iron walls sealing the people inside, but also the people themselves- the stubborn steadfast, hardworking, reasonable citizens. Because of that, I just couldn't see them in such a state. It _is_ possible, but of all the horrid sights I have given to you, dear reader, this chaotic mess was not one I could bring myself to imagine and put to paper comfortably.

In the end, I guess I wanted this fic to truly be about how important it is to remember that our real-life heroes are still people. They have flaws. Some of them are much closer to home. Some are celebrities. For those who can, it's important to take care of what we do with what those heroes leave behind while still being our own legend/person in the end. As the 11th Doctor from _Doctor Who_ once said, "We're all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?"

This is all I have in its entirety to divulge to you. I thank those of you for reading. As a disclaimer, I do not own Ni no Kuni: Wrath of the White Witch. I do not own any of the characters from the game. I own my own ideas.

I hope you enjoyed. I hope it was interesting. This has been one wild ride for me. Thank you.

Thank you for reading this.


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